Darkness Underneath
by LilyOfShalott
Summary: New intelligence from Azkaban Prison now puts the convictions of several dangerous Death Eaters at risk of being overturned. Hermione Granger, under the watchful eye of the Minister for Magic, leads a small team of Healers to get to the bottom of just what the Dark Mark was actually capable of.
1. Chapter 1

The Wizarding world was still in a state of recovery. Nearly two years had passed since the final battle, yet still, the effects of Lord Voldemort linger. Muggles were still scared to walk around their neighbourhoods at night, and the occasional rogue Dementor floated into inhabited areas. The magical community were still wary of a Death Eater resurface. Dozens were still unaccounted for, and every new face to show in the Ministry of Magic was met with intense scrutiny. Trust was far more difficult to earn these days; even the Minister for Magic, Kinglsey Shacklebolt, was unable to walk into his office without being scanned for deceptive charms.

Even though it was the middle of Summer, rain was lashing down on the windows of Hermione Granger's London apartment. The young witch was dreading her walk to the tube, made even worse by the fact that she'd yet to unpack her umbrella from the moving boxes. She still couldn't quite believe she now _owned_ a flat; no one else's, no more sharing, just her. She had never felt more free.

"Fuck it, I'll floo," she muttered to herself, snapping the blinds closed. She drained the last of her coffee from her mug before going over to the large fireplace. She hated travelling by floo powder, but since you still couldn't apparate into the ministry (and she refused to use those ghastly toilet's set up during the war), she was left with no other choice. She smoothed over her work robes, plucking a stray cat hair off her sleeve, and picked up her small jar of floo powder. She threw it into the fire, which immediately erupted into green flames, and stepped in. "Ministry of Magic – Atrium," she said clearly, tucking her elbows in tight and clutching her handbag to her chest as she started to spin.

Moments later, she stepped out of one of the many Ministry fires. She'd barely taken a few steps before one of the attendants walked up to her. "Name and wand please, Ma'am."

The security checks didn't bother Hermione. She had even written some of the procedures herself, and knew that they were necessary. "Hermione Granger, Magical Law Enforcement," she said, handing over her wand. The attendant scanned it with his, and handed it back.

"Have a good day, Hermione," he said kindly.

"Thanks, Terry, you too" she smiled, before walking through the golden gates. Even though some of the higher offices still had shattered windows and needed to be repaired, the Atrium was nevertheless a breathtaking sight. The god-awful statue the previous Ministry had erected, of muggles in their rightful place, had been blown to smithereens and replaced with a sculpture of a phoenix, in honour of the Order. She looked fondly at it as she walked past, like she did every morning.

As she walked to the lift, she gave a smile to a few people, and greeted some with pleasantries. After working here for nearly a year now, people had gotten over the fact of seeing a member of the golden trio walk among them. She looked like everyone else; tired eyes, holding far too many files, hair stubbornly growing bushier as the heat increased. Nothing special.

Without paying attention to where she was walking, she had found her way to her small office. A fresh cup of coffee was waiting for her on her desk, along with a few memos. She recognised Harry's writing on one – suggesting they have lunch together later – and, to her surprise, a note from Minister Shacklebolt.

 _Hermione,_

 _I have a job opportunity I'd like to talk to you about. Please stop by my office at 3pm._

 _Kingsley, M. O. M._

She furrowed her brow. Whenever Kingsley offered her a job, it was usually because it was something too difficult to do himself. She'd lost count of the amount of hours she had spent in the Department of Mysteries, using her extensive magical knowledge to identify a variety of confiscated items found in raids, along with still having to do her _real_ job.

She wrote quick replies to both Harry and Kingsley and cast a silent charm so the parchment would fold into aeroplanes and fly from the room. She was looking forward to lunch. With all three of them now having full-time jobs, it was hard to see Harry and Ron as much as she'd like. There were fortnightly dinners as the Weasley's place, but she hadn't been for months. Just as she was dedicated to school work at Hogwarts, she was just as dedicated to her job, often working overtime and bring files home with her when her insomnia struck. It had been a common thing since the war. She couldn't remember the last time she slept and woke up feeling rejuvenated.

With a long day ahead of her, she took a gulp of coffee and averted her gaze to her in-tray. It had doubled in size since she left last night. Her department was currently in the final stages of planning security for the upcoming quidditch season, and it looked as though the Auror's had finally approved their measures.

They had been critisized by a select few _Daily_ _Prophet_ reporters about how they should be spending money on re-building efforts, but most of the public disagreed. It was something positive to look forward too, but the Ministry had certainly learned from their mistakes from the world cup six years ago. Members of Hermione's team had even invented new protective spells to keep the area safe. It truly had been a fascinating process, and she had documented every minute of it. Being able to record spell-tests had just added to her thirst for knowledge.

She got to work, reading through the notes and suggestions. Who ever had written the majority of it had very hard to read handwriting, and by the time lunch came around, she had a splitting headache. She saw a familiar shadow pass by her glass window and, sure enough, a knock sounded on her door. "Coming, Harry," she said, taking a swig of pain-killing potion she kept at her desk. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door, headache slowly disappearing.

Harry looked the same as he always did, same messy hair and brilliant green eyes, but for some reason, was attempting the 'I haven't shaved in 5 days' look. She wasn't sure if it suited him. "Terrilo's ok?" he asked as they walked down the hall.

Hermione nodded, she was a regular customer at that café. Their steak and stout pie was legendary. "How did the raids go last week?" she asked.

"So-so," Harry replied, " but at least Narcissa Malfoy didn't try to fight our warrant. I was worried she might kick up a fuss."

For a moment, her mind flashed to the horror's she had been subjected to at Mafloy Manor, but she pushed it back. That was the past. Narcissa had earned her freedom, and was free to live on as a witch, although Hermione did her best to avoid the woman, despite her friendship with Draco.

"The few things we found weren't actually dark magic at all, but they're certainly interesting," he continued, before launching into details. Hermione listened attentively, and didn't break eye contact, even when their meals had been brought out. She loved seeing Harry so happy with his work. Although at first she thought him foolish to not return to Hogwarts after the war, she could now see that he'd made the right decision for his career. He's one of the youngest Auror's the Ministry has ever had, and given the fact he killed the Dark Lord, could easily be the most successful.

As their lunch talks carried on, Hermione kept glancing at her watch. She didn't have much time left until she had to leave to meet Kingsley, and she knew security on the Minister's level look a lot longer than the usual procedures. She regretfully said farewell to Harry, with a promise to try and come to the Weasley dinner on Friday, before hurrying back to the Ministry. She headed straight for the lift, pressed button B1 and waited as the iron elevator whizzed her around the building.

Upon arrival, she surrendered her wand to be scanned, while another guard scanned her mind for enchantments or illegal potions. She answered a few basic questions and was finally allowed through. Just as she got to Kingsley's receptionist, the man himself strode in, smiling. "Good to see you, Hermione," he said, gesturing for her to follow him.

"And you," she replied as they entered his office. It hadn't changed since she had last been there, and the armchairs were as comfortable as ever.

"Let's get straight to business," the minister said, sitting opposite behind his mahogany desk. "A captured Death Eater let something slip at his latest parole hearing, something we feel we need to investigate. While it sounded like a crazy story, we have to remember that Voldemort himself was crazy. It could be plausible. He did know more about magic – especially dark magic – than anyone else on this planet."

Hermione nodded, curiosity getting the better of her. "What did the prisoner say?"

"It was about those Dark Mark tattoo's that they all had. He claimed that some worked like the Imperius curse, leaving the Death Eater completely under Voldemort's control."

" _Some_..." Hermione repeated. "That's interesting." She was unsure whether she believed it, but looking at it from a non-biased point of view, it wouldn't surprise her if someone had created a charm capable of that. Especially someone as skilled as Lord Voldemort

"Apparently," he continued, "these special tattoo's were only placed on those who joined under the age of 17."

"Voldemort probably didn't want them changing their minds when they grew up," Hermione sad in a low voice.

"My thoughts exactly."

"So what does this have to do with me?" Hermione asked. "Do you want me to see if that kind of spell is possible? Because, honestly, it wouldn't surprise me. Voldemort's hardly the first dark wizard this world has known. Even Snape invented dark curses, and as a teenager, at that."

At this, Kingsley looked at her rather guiltily. "We're already testing that theory. I'd like _you_ to interview and document the Death Eater's we end up choosing. To record their progress, if they make any. Minerva mentioned a few months ago now how you had once said you'd prefer to work at St Mungo's, rather than the Ministry. Consider this a branching effort fr your career, if you're interested."

Hermione replayed the words slowly in her mind. Minerva was correct, St Mungo's was her desired job, but the thought of facing a Death Eater terrified her. They had stolen almost everything from her in the past. Destroyed her completely, forcing her to make decisions no teenager should ever have to make, and her parents were still missing in Australia two years later. "Are there any Death Eaters alive who joined before they became of age?" Most of Voldemort's followers were dead, some were still on the run, and the few that remained in England were either in Azkaban or St. Mungo's.

"There are three confirmed at the current time," he said. "One being Draco Malfoy, who I'm under the impression you are good friends with."

 _Draco. Of course._ Again, Hermione nodded. "You'd be correct. I'm more than happy to interview him over this. He hates talking about the past, but he generally opens up a bit more to me than anyone else. With the exception of Tori, and his mother," she added fairly.

"Excellent," Kingley said, leaning back in his chair.

"And the other two?" she asked, already dreading the answer.

"Bellatrix Lestrange, and her brother-in-law, Rabastan. Rodolphus Lestrange joined when he was 19, but his then fiancée and brother were only 15 and 16 respectively."

Hermione's face drained of colour at the mention of the first name. There had been a rumour that she had survived the battle, mainly because nobody believed Molly Weasley capable of casting a killing curse. A good stunning spell, perhaps, but not an Unforgivable. "Surely you can find someone else to do this, Kingsley" she whispered, frowning. "Those two were – _are_ – monsters."

The Minister sighed. "If what our source said is true, they might not be. They might have been _forced_ to be monsters, without realising their actions weren't their own. The reason why I am asking you, Hermione, is because I know you can see good in even the darkest of minds. You have forgiven people who didn't necessarily deserve it. Your friendship with young Draco Malfoy perplexed many yet you make it work. If it gets too much, you can leave at any time. I just want to see how you go."

"Please let me think about this," she said after a while, mind racing. "I'll talk to Draco, but as for the other two..."

The minister nodded. "No rush. I thought perhaps you don't decide until after you hear what Mr Malfoy has to say?"

At this, Hermione chuckled softly. _Oh, Kingsley, you're smart_ , she thought. "Deal." She felt disgusted at herself for even suggesting this, but the logical part of her mind pushed her vocal chords into submission. "Just in case it is true, perhaps the Lestrange's should be moved from Azkaban. You can see what they're like without Dementor's wreaking havoc on their minds. If they have been oppressed by Voldemort, you're not going to know until they're free from that island."

"Already thought of," he agreed, "they're being transferred to St Mungo's this evening."

At the finality of his tone, Hermione turned to leave, but one more question was niggling at her. "Wasn't Bellatrix on the list of the dead?"

"It appeared that Molly's curse had similar effects to Draught of Living Death potion. She regained consciousness on the afternoon of May 3rd. We decided to keep that quiet, for everyone's well-being," he explained. "She's been in an unmarked cell in Azkaban since. Mad as ever, apparently."

Hermione nodded. Her mind was moving too quickly to think of anything else to ask coherently. "I'll write to Draco and set up a meeting. I'll keep you informed."

As she left, she tried to control her breathing to get her heart rate down. It didn't work, and by the time she had made it through the security checks to her office, it was almost time to go home. She stood behind her desk, staring up at the ceiling, hands tangled in her curls. Her professionalism kept her calm in the Ministers office, but she couldn't keep that mask on forever.

 _Calm down, Hermione_ , she told herself. As she sat in her chair, she re-organised her thoughts. Instead of focusing on the bigger picture, she repeated over and over that all she had to do right now was talk to Draco. No Bellatrix, no Rabastan, just Draco, one of her closest friends. They had coffee every week, this hardly changes anything. It took her a while, but eventually, she had calmed down enough to write a letter without her quill shaking too much.

 _Draco,_

 _The Minister has given me a new project concerning you, and I need to ask you some questions. Any chance we can re-schedule Saturday's dinner to tomorrow night? Heads up – it's about the war. Sorry in advance. Drink as much Gigglewater as you need._

 _H._

She looked at the stack of papers still on her desk. She was certainly not in the right headspace to work any more, so she quickly packed her things and left, taking half of the files with her in case she felt better at home. As she bade her co-workers and assistants a good evening, she hurried to the post office on the floor below to owl her note to Draco before flooing home, mind still running in circles.

She had just settled in her nice hot bath, working out the kinks in her back, when her doorbell sounded. She tried to ignore it at first, but it became more persistent. Grumbling darkly, she quickly dried herself off and threw on a light dress. She cursed as she saw the time – 10pm. _Who on Earth goes around ringing people's doorbells at this hour?_

* * *

"Draco?" she asked in surprise as she opened the door. On the threshold, the tall blond gave a very apologetic smile. It was only then that she realised he wasn't alone – standing behind him was Narcissa Malfoy, her features completely expressionless. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Sorry for the late hour," he said, "but I think I know what you want to talk about. Mum was told earlier that Bellatrix was part of a new Ministry inquiry about Dark Marks or something. She probably knows much more about it than me." Behind him, Narcissa nodded slowly. "I bought wine. Still an insomniac?" he asked, trying to ease the tension.

Hermione laughed. "Are you?" She opened the door completely, waving the two blondes in. "Sorry about the mess, only moved in a few days ago," she said, clearing some boxes of her leather sofa. "Still haven't unpacked."

While Draco set about helping Hermione remove the boxes from the coffee table, Narcissa hovered awkwardly by the door. Her heart was hammering, and Hermione noticed she grew paler and paler. "Have a seat, Mrs. Malfoy," the brunette said.

"Mum. It's fine," Draco said when she didn't move.

The tension in the air made Hermione feel that Draco had spent more than a few hours talking to his mother this evening. It was clear that this information Kingsley had gotten had some basis in truth, although as to what extent, Hermione didn't know. Given the Malfoy matriarch was at the home of a muggle-born, she knew it must be serious.

"Thank you," Narcissa said eventually, easing down into an armchair. Her back remained rigid, and her hands were clutched so tightly together her knuckles were white. "I must say, I was expecting more hostility," she admitted. Draco rolled his eyes before he went searching for some wine glasses.

Hermione sighed. "At the end of the day, you did the right thing," she said. "After Kingsley mentioned your sister's potential history to me, I knew I'd have to talk to both you and Andromeda."

Narcissa nodded. "The Death Eater that talked. Personally, I do believe what he said is partially true. Draco can confirm, the tattoos are more than just a method of contact."

The young witch stood up and rummaged in her handbag for her notebook and pen. After seeing the damage Rita Skeeter's quick-quotes quill did, she could never bring herself to use magic to take notes. She loved being able to be a muggle from time to time. Despite what the older witch sitting in her living room had once believed of her blood, Hermione was proud of her heritage.

Draco, who emerged from the kitchen with three glasses of wine, sat down next to his mother. "I'm sure you already know what you want to ask me," he said. "Go ahead. Some of my memories are a bit clouded, but Mum can fill them in."

Hermione nodded, pen poised and ready to take notes. For once, she was glad she wasn't tired. Her mind had stopped going mental. She simply had to know what the Dark Mark was truly capable of. As soon as she had gotten home, she had _accio_ -ed her Healer books from some of her boxes to look up on how they handled psychology in the wizarding world. The procedures were slightly different than the muggle ones, given the fact wizards have access to a variety of truth potions and mind relaxants to assist in recovery. "Assuming the curse isn't real," she began, "did Voldemort have any other way to force you to do his bidding, or was it out of choice?"

"Threats. And I knew he would follow through," Draco said after a silence. The relationship change between the two younger people in the room was evident. They were now interviewer and interviewee. Hermione knew the answers already, but he didn't expect her to break the rules for him. As he'd learned in their final year of Hogwarts together, she was adamant about protocols and professionalism regardless of the situation.

"Did you notice your personality change once you had been branded?" She had debated over what word to use to describe the tattoo. To some, it had been displayed with pride, yet others had been ashamed by it, and possibly tricked into getting it. As the world recovered from the war, she realised there were a few people that had had no choice in joining Voldemort – it was either follow him, or die. She had fought hard for lighter sentences on those who had been coerced.

"Looking back now, I realised I had changed," he admitted. "But at the time, we were all in a constant state of fear than all emotions blended into a mess."

"I thought it was depression, at first," Narcissa said quietly, "which would be anyone's logical first thought. I went to Severus for help, as you know. But sometimes, the real Draco would break through. Just a scared 16 year old boy in an adult's fight."

Hermione wrote down the assumption. "Same symptom as depression, regardless," she murmured. She knew that any of this would be damn near impossible to prove. This all happened during war. Everyone's memories were sketchy, everyone would have fallen into situational depression, regardless of what side they were on, with the exception of a few Death Eaters. "How do you see it differently, looking back?" she asked.

At this, Draco turned to his mother, who held his shoulder, staring intently into his grey eyes. With that bit of encouragement, he turned to Hermione again. "Dumbledore knew," he said, voice shaking. "He didn't admit it, but I could tell. He offered me protection - and my mother - said we could be moved to an Order safe-house within half an hour. Every time...every time, I fought so hard to say 'yes' to his offer, but it wouldn't come out. I always said 'no'."

"That is odd," Hermione agreed. "It certainly sounds like there could have been some sort of control happening."

"If it's true, what would this mean for Bella?" All pretence of aristocracy was gone from Narcissa Malfoy's voice. She was breathing rapidly, and Hermione noticed her eyes were watery and desperate.

Hermione swallowed hard; any mention of Bellatrix was enough to make her want to run. "I don't know. You have to understand, your sister-"

"-Did horrible things, yes," Narcissa interrupted, "but _if_ she was forced to do this by magic, then..."

"Then we are going to be in for some very trying times ahead," Hermione answered diplomatically.

"Kinglsey said she was being moved this evening," Draco said, "any chance we'd be able to see her at some point?"

Hermione looked at both Malfoy's sitting before her. To think that this family was feared for so long; they looked broken and defeated, a shadow of their former selves. "You'll have to ask the Minister, but I'll mention it when I see him tomorrow." she said.

Draco nodded, and gave his mother's hand a squeeze. "We should probably get going, it's quite late," he said apologetically. "Dinner still on for tomorrow, yes?"

"Absolutely," Hermione smiled, before showing them to the door. After hearing the _cracks_ of them disapparating, she leaned back against the door and slowly slid down to the floor, taking a long sip of wine as she did so. _Damn you, Kingsley_ , she thought. There was no way she could refuse his offer now. The concept was just too intriguing.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hello! Wow, I'm so overwhelmed at the response to this story so far. It's been 6 years since I last wrote fanfiction so I'm beyond glad that the community is still as alive as ever. It's like coming home! This chapter is a lot of dialogue and setting the foundation for the future, I hope you enjoy it! The next chapter will be uploaded within the next week.

A reviewer asked about how the Bellatrix/Hermione pairing will eventuate and what kind of love it would be: it's definitely going to be a slow burn thing, and will be romantic rather than dark.

-Lily x

* * *

She didn't manage to get much sleep. Her dreams were haunted by memories of what had happened at Malfoy Manor. The pain as real as it had been then, and she felt the blood dripping from her arm. But when the dream-Hermione had opened her eyes, except instead of seeing Bellatrix on top of her, torturing her, Voldemort was in her place instead. She woke up in a cold sweat, the scars on her arm and neck tingling, heart racing. Bellatrix had certainly left her mark, not only on her flesh, but inside her head as well.

As her breathing slowed, her eyes slowly adjusted to the morning sun shining in through the window and she noticed her tawny owl, Lucy, perched on her vanity, letter attached to her leg. Realising her owner was awake, she gave a soft hoot and flew over to the bed, offering it's paw. "Good morning to you, too," Hermione said, stroking her speckled feathers. Two pieces of parchment were attached, both from Minister Shacklebolt. She cracked open the wax seal on the first letter;

 _Hermione,_

 _I'm telling the Order this morning, it's only fair. We'll all be sworn to absolute secrecy. Lestrange's are in hospital being assessed. I've told your office that you wont be in for the rest of the week, Susan Bones is taking your workload._

 _-KS_

The second letter read;

 _Order of the Phoenix – urgent meeting. Grimmauld place, 9am. Ministry employee's, your offices have been notified you'll be in late._

 _Kinglsey_

Hermione glanced at her clock. 8.35am. _Shit._ She'd over-slept.

She had the quickest shower of her life, threw on some white pants and a blue blouse, slipped into a pair of flats and did a quick beauty charm to hide the dark circles under her eyes. As soon as she had brushed her teeth, she grabbed her work files and notebooks, then turned her mind to focus on the image of the old Headquarters, Number 12 Grimmauld Place. An invisible jerk claimed her navel as she swirled into apparation, reappearing barely a moment later on a deserted muggle street next to a long-forgotten park.

Around her, she heard a few faint _pops_ as more Order members apparated; Ginny, Harry and Ron appeared. She couldn't help but smile at seeing them all together. Even though they were happy to see each other, there was a worried look in all of their eyes. They had never been called for an urgent meeting in over a year now; the last one was to talk over evidence against Walden McNair and Fenrir Greyback posthumously. They had been some of the final trials and all had hoped the courts were finished.

"Haven't been here in ages," Harry mused, walking up the stairs and opening the door for everyone.

"Kreacher seems to have kept it clean," Ron said approvingly, peering down the dark hall.

Kingsley's booming voice barked from the kitchen. "Hurry up! We don't have much time!"

"Sounds like Mad-Eye," George said, appearing from behind them, looking the happiest of the lot. "Morning, family," he added, in a voice that sounded uncannily like his brother Percy's.

They hurried in, past the old elephant foot umbrella stand Tonks used to always knock over, and sat down at the long kitchen table. Molly, Arthur, Bill, Andromeda, Minerva and Kinglsey were all waiting for them; Charlie was in the corner, playing with little Teddy and Victoire.

Once everyone was seated, Kingsley stood, clearly indicating that this wasn't a meeting to spend catching up with everyone. "Thanks for coming at short notice," he said. "I feel I need to let you all know before rumours will undoubtedly start. Hermione already knows-" he shot her a quick smile, "-but is sworn to secrecy, as will all of you in this room."

In the corner, Hermione heard 'shush'-ing noises as Charlie, still playing with the children, tried to get the two toddlers to quieten down.

"Under questioning last week, a convicted Death Eater told of an old rumour that, ethically and legally, we must investigate," the Minister said. "Previous Ministry's always ignored this possible theory, however I want to put it to rest once and for all. Essentially, the story goes that the Dark Mark tattoo was _more_ than just a way for Voldemort to contact his followers. Apparently, if you were branded under the age of 17, it had Imperius curse-type qualities tied into the magic."

Instinctively, Hermione's eyes flashed to Andromeda. The older witch may have kept her face expressionless, but her knuckles had whitened as she clasped her wand tightly in front of her as soon as Kingsley mentioned the age factor. Clearly, she knew this had ties to her sister.

"So their actions might not have been their own?" Minerva asked, leaning forward on her elbows. "Minister, this is-"

"-A big issue, yes," Kingsley interrupted. "The past three days, I've been pouring over criminal records of all Death Eaters, alive or dead, to see if there was an age listed as to when they joined Voldemort. But furthermore, it's now lead to me having to own up to a bit of a cover-up that myself and Minerva have been hiding-"

"Oh gosh, she was only 15, wasn't she?" the Hogwarts Headmistress breathed; her cheeks had flushed with embarrassment a second ago, but now she was as pale as a ghost. "She's one of the ones you're questioning?"

Hermione's brown eyes snapped to her former teacher. "You knew she was alive?" She had never expected Minerva McGonagall to know such a closely guarded secret.

"I found her. Or, her pulse, rather," Minerva explained quietly.

Silence fell, and tension hung in the air. Confused faces were all around, and some had paled at what Minerva's statement could mean. "Please tell me you're not talking about who I think you are, Kingsley," Harry said loudly from the other end of the table. He looked a mixture between shocked and mildly angry, and Hermione couldn't blame him.

"Bellatrix Lestrange," Kingsley began, "survived the Battle. And is now one of only three Death Eaters alive that I can confirm were branded while underage." His shoulders slumped, and Hermione realised she had never seen him so conflicted. She did not envy his position at all.

"I killed her," a very confused Molly said faintly. "D-didn't I?"

"Not quite," Minerva said. "We haven't investigated what actually happened. You did, however, wound her significantly. She was in a coma for well over 24 hours. It's a miracle, actually-"

Andromeda, who had been silent up until now, rounded on Kingsley. "You're saying my sister is alive?" she demanded, cutting all chatter short. It was rare the middle Black sibling lost her temper, but when she raised her voice, she sounded remarkably like her older sister. "And might be _innocent_?" Her voice had gone faint as she asked the second question, a mixture of emotions flickering across her features.

"Yes," Hermione said gently, unable to even imagine what sort of internal conflict the older witch must be feeling. "Kingsley," she turned to the Minister, "I spoke to both Draco and Mrs. Malfoy last night. While many could argue that what Draco was experiencing was depression laced with coercion, it could have easily have been magical control."

At this, both Harry and Ron started questioning the Minister loudly, with Ginny soon following. Kingsley merely held up his hand. "I didn't come here to get permission to investigate this," he said calmly, "simply to warn you that I am. If, at the end of it, we determine that Bellatrix and Rabastan, and any potential others we find, _were_ completely guilty of their crimes, they will be sent back to Azkaban."

"And if not?" Ginny demanded hotly. "Let's not forget that, regardless, they killed a lot of people. She _tortured_ Hermione, let's not even _begin_ to think of what she did to _Neville's-_ "

"-Ginny," Molly snapped, "Please don't interrupt the Minister for Magic. I'm sure this revelation has caused him enough stress already and he has much more pressing places to be."

The fiery red-head clearly still had more to say, but after succumbing to one of her mother's terrifying glares, sat back down, arms crossed. "Sorry, Minister," she said pointedly.

"To answer your question, Ginny," Kinglsey said fairly, "if we find that, ethically, they're _not_ guilty, we are going to have a very long road of recovery and rehabilitation ahead of us. At present, we don't know what their mental state is, and if the curse does exist, it could have affected their memories. For all we know, they might wake up today thinking they're teenagers, not realising that 35 years has passed since they were initiated."

"Will you be allowing them visitors?" Andromeda asked weakly.

"Narcissa also asked this, Kingsley," Hermione added, remembering the Malfoy Matriarch's request from last night.

"Not until we've evaluated them, and I have no idea how long that will take us," he said. "I can't promise anything just yet."

Andromeda accepted this, nodding once before leaning back in her chair. She had her eyes fixed on the peeling ceiling, blinking away tears. Hermione knew Kingsley would have given her a heads up, but she couldn't help but feel guilty that Andromeda probably had barely any time to prepare herself..

"Why does Hermione already know?" Harry asked, much calmer than he was a few minutes ago. His brilliant green eyes flickered from his best friend to Kingsley, trying gauge the situation between them.

"I've asked her to help with the evaluations," the Minister explained. "I don't want to bring too many outsiders into this. Not to mention, she a wealth of knowledge about all manner of curses-" she felt her cheeks redden slightly, "-and has experience with helping former Death Eater's adjust to society despite having mental issues to work through."

"What-? Oh," Ron started, before realising Kingsley was talking about Draco Malfoy. While Harry and Daco had gotten over most of their differences and were polite in passing, Ron was still hesitant to forgive their former enemy. Hermione knew he had good reasons to feel that way, but she had learned that holding grudges made it difficult to move on and rebuild. She had let go of the past a long time ago, something that still perplexed some of her friends.

"If any of you want progress reports on either of the Lestrange's, or Draco Malfoy's testimony, feel free to contact me," Kingsley said. "This is now the Ministry's most confidential investigation. I don't want this story to get out this early on."

"Rita Skeeter would have a field day," Arthur muttered, bringing smirks to those around him.

"Precisely," Kinsley said knowingly. "I'm off to St. Mungo's to see the Lestrange's. Hermione, I will be in touch soon. To everyone else...I'm sorry to bring up the past. But we have to do this."

"No need to apologise, Kingsley," Molly said. While she tried very hard to sound like her usual self, Hermione could hear a slight testing undertone to her voice. "I understand that we must remain open to any potential new evidence."

"Thank you, Molly. Good bye, everyone." The Minister strode over to the fireplace and, after a small wave farewell, said clearly, "St. Mungo's, Psych Unit 731!".

"At least they're still locked up," Hermione heard Ron mutter under his breath to Ginny. Part of her agreed with him, but there was a small pat of her, which was slowly growing, that made her have doubts over Bellatrix's and Rabastan's convictions. She hated herself for having those thoughts. All she had to do to remember what Bellatrix was capable of was to look down at her arm – the word 'mudblood' had been carved into her flesh by the feared sorceress herself. The pain of the cruciatus still haunted her nightmares, and she still found it difficult to use sharp knives after having one pressed up against her throat. Even in 'death', Bellatrix Lestrange – and the rest of the Death Eaters, for that matter – were still present in the wizarding community. Memories take a long time to fade.

"Hermione?" Andromeda's soft voice broke her out of her distracted mind. She looked like she had gathered her thoughts now, and her hands had loosened their grip on her wand. "Are you sure you'll be able to face her? I don't think Kingsley will blame you if you don't want to see the woman who tortured you."

"I'll be fine," Hermione said, reaching the older witch's hand to give it an affectionate pat. "She wont be able to hurt me. I've promised Kingsley I'd interview her once, likewise for Rabastan. That's the extent of my commitment so far."

Andromeda pursed her lips, surveying the young witch. "What are you doing now? I feel like you should know a bit about her childhood. Especially if the Mark affected her memories. Before her marriage..."

"Before her engagement announcement, she was relatively normal," Minerva said, keeping her voice low as she hopped over to the vacant seat beside Andromeda.

"What about Rabastan?" Hermione asked. "Was he-?"

Andromeda shook her head, eyes flashing angrily. "Even if he wasn't being controlled by Voldemort, he would have still turned out the same, in my opinion," she said sharply. Clearly, she had experience with the younger Lestrange brother. "Before Father had confirmed Bellatrix's betrothal to Rodolphus, it was potentially going to be me and Rabastan to be married." She shuddered at the memory.

Minerva frowned at hearing this new information. "Arranged marriages have always sat unwell with me," she muttered darkly. "I could always tell when one had happened. In my first twenty-five years of teaching, I couldn't count the amount of girls – mostly in Slytherin, sadly – that I've found in tears once they got back from holidays."

"Bella didn't handle it all that well," Andromeda said quietly.

Hermione was absorbing this new information like a sponge. "What happened?"

"A lot," Andromeda said sadly. The ghost of memories briefly glazed her eyes. "I'm sure it's in her Hogwarts records...Minerva?"

"That's a given me an idea. Hermione-" she turned to the younger witch, "-after you've spoken to Andy, please stop by Hogwarts. I can get you student files and medical history on Bellatrix. And Rabastan and Draco. We teachers take a lot of notes on our students."

"I would be very grateful, thank you," Hermione said. She was suddenly curious to know what her own record contained. Despite her near-perfect grades, a friendship with Ron Weasley and Harry Potter hadn't kept her as well-behaved as she'd normally be.

While the three witches had been talking, most of the others had started getting ready to leave. Harry, however, was playing with his God-Son Teddy in the corner, while Bill was singing one of his wife's French nursery rhymes to Victoire, who seemed to be on the verge of a tantrum.

"Best get Teddy home," Andromeda said, noticing the scene before her. "Loud noises set him off. Floo over in 5, Hermione?"

"I will," she said, very glad she remembered her notebook in her rush to leave.

Andromeda smiled as she left, hurrying over to her grandson who today, Hermione only just noticed, had decided on bright purple hair. She couldn't help but think Tonks would be very, very proud, wherever she was.

"I must be off, as well," Minerva said, standing up and smoothing over her emerald robes. "I have no classes from midday, so Floo over any time, Hermione." She grasped the young witch's hands rightly. "I know you will be the best person to investigate this."

"Thank you, Minerva."

"See you soon," she said, before heading straight over to the grate.

Hermione waved briefly before the Professor was engulfed in green flame and vanished. While the conversation was fresh in her mind, she quickly took out her notebook and wrote down the points Minerva had mentioned about arranged marriage effects on students, and the fact Andromeda had little sympathy for the youngest Lestrange brother. There were so many possible variables about what their memories would be like once they've been evaluated by the Healers. She knew if she didn't force herself to stop thinking about it, her mind would keep her busy for hours.

"Hermione!" Ginny's voice shouted from the other end of the room. "Still coming to dinner tomorrow?"

"Yes, I will be, finally," she called back.

"Oh, wonderful," Molly said, smiling widely. "Any time after 5, dear."

"I'll do my best to get there then," she said. "I must be off to Andy's, see you tomorrow," she called as a general good-bye to the entire Weasley family, before stepping into the flames. She gave a small wave to a happier Victoire before the kitchen swirled from view.

* * *

"How are they?"

The two Healers in the room jumped at Kingsley Shacklebolt's melodious voice. The greying med-witch, Prue Bletchley, gestured for the Minister to sit on the couch in the office. "Still asleep," she said, almost surprised. "We had to restrain Mrs. Lestrange for a few hours soon after her arrival. Whatever dreams that are going on in that head of hers appear to be quite violent."

"And Mr. Lestrange?" Kinsgley asked.

"He woke up briefly and asked for water. By the time we got it to him, however, he had gone back to sleep," the med-wizard, Uritch Rosier said. "That was at 5am, no movement since."

"Bellatrix's sleep has since calmed," Prue added, reading over the chart. "She's covered in bruises that must have happened in Azkaban. We've got pain-killing potions on standby for when she wakes."

Kingsley nodded, taking the charts to see for himself. He had been told she was known for throwing herself against walls and inflicting injuries on herself. The bruises didn't surprise him. "Have you found anyone else you trust to help with this investigation?"

"Not yet," Prue said irritatedly. "I've got a vetting system in place and so far, none of my colleagues, even from my former placement, have passed my tests."

"Can't say I blame them," Uritch said fairly. "The Lestrange's are...well..."

Kingsley sighed, knowing that Uritch didn't need to finish the sentence. He knew it would be difficult finding people willing to show a duty of care to two dangerous terrorists. He'd poached Prue from retirement, and Uritch's family had ties to the Dark Arts and could be trusted to be sympathetic to - as the Healer himself had said - 'old family friends'. "Hermione Granger has agreed to work with us, albeit on a day-by-day basis," he said. "She's already started talking to Draco and Narcissa Malfoy. Andromeda Tonks and Minerva McGonagall have offered their assistance, as well."

"How did the Order take it?" Prue asked.

"Some weren't happy," he almost laughed, remembering Ginny's outburst, "but with the talks of ethics being thrown in, they agreed that it must at least be looked in to."

"Potter cool with it?" asked Uritch, looking up from his paperwork.

"Eventually."

"Come, you can see them if you want," Prue said, standing up and putting her hat back on over her curls. "They look a lot better than when they arrived, I can tell you."

Kingsley's mind flashed back to his trip to Azkaban yesterday afternoon. He, Prue, Uritch and Auror Davis had gone in secret, stupefying the Lestrange's in their cells before transferring them to stretchers and placing white sheets over them. If anyone had seen, it would have looked like they were transporting bodies for a burial.

Even though the prison had been refurbished for more humane conditions after the war, it was still in further need of repair. It smelled of rotted fish and rats, and two Dementor's were still stationed there, which meant that it still felt as desolate and obsolete as it had always done.

Prue lead the Minister out to the small ward. The rooms were separated, and the walls were glass. Auror Davis was the guard on duty by the door, and he gave Kingsley a nod as he walked by. "We've started them both on nutrient potions," Prue explained. "Mrs. Lestrange is through here." She waved her wand at the glass door before pushing it open. Bellatrix was lying on the bed, emaciated chest rising and falling slowly. "She's had a constant mild fever and we discovered she's less likely to thrash around without a blanket. As you can see-" she pointed at the patient's left arm, collarbones, knees and feet, "lots of bruising, and a few scratches. When we changed her into a hospital gown, we were quite shocked as to how none of her bones were actually broken. Especially on her ribs - that amount of bruising would be indicative of a fracture, but all scans were clear."

Bellatrix looked very pale, Kingsley noticed, but the sleep seemed to have reduced the heavy bags under her eyes. She didn't look nearly as mad as she had the day before, pacing in her cell and muttering incoherently to herself. "Very good," he said, looking away from the most notorious Death Eater the world had known. "And Rabastan?"

"Follow me," Prue said, leading them out of Bellatrix's room. "Uritch, another feeding vial for Madam Lestrange, please."

"Yes, Ma'am," the young med-wizard said, ducking off to the other end of the ward.

With Prue holding open the door, Kinsley stepped into Rabastan's room. Like his sister-in-law, he was gaunt and pale, and sleeping calmly. "No injuries on this one," the Healer said. "Very thin, he's been getting feeding potions every two hours, like Bellatrix. What I have noticed, however-"

Kingsley's eyes widened at the serious tone of her voice

"-Is that their Dark Mark's – or what's left of them, really – are different to each other. I've treated many a Death Eater in my day, Minister, and have only ever seen one other like Black's. Lestrange's here is just like all the others, it's faded to a simple grey scar." she lifted up Rabastan's arm to show the Minister. While his arm was littered with prison tattoo's and a variety of scars, the single straight grey line was unmistakable. It was identical to the ones he had seen on all the Death Eaters before the Wizenagamot.

"And Bellatrix's?"

Prue lead them back to Bellatrix's room, where she gently lifted up the frail, thin arm. Instead of a grey scar, it was a red one. If Kingsley hadn't known it was where her Dark Mark had been, he'd have assumed it was a rather bloody scratch.

"Check the Malfoy boy's," Prue said, narrowing her eyes. "I'd be curious to know what his is like."

Kingsley nodded, watching Prue carefully place Bellatrix's arm back down on the bed. She stirred, briefly, eyes flickering, but was asleep again barely a second later. "To think, we're treating Bellatrix Lestrange with sympathy and the benefit of the doubt. Augusta Longbottom will have my head if she ever finds out," Prue said, a faint hint of humour in her voice.

"You and me both," Kingsley sighed. "And probably my job."


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione stepped out of Andromeda's fireplace to find the older woman leaning against her kitchen table trying to convince her grandson to eat his mid-morning snack; mashed banana. Hermione watch on in slight awe. She hadn't spent a lot of time around children, and was amazed at the patience parents possessed. Or Grandmothers, in this case. She smiled as Andy looked over her shoulder. "Look who's here, Teddy?" she gasped, trying to gain the toddlers interest.

"Aunty Hermione!" the purple haired toddler called out, fighting to get out of his chair

"One more spoonful, then you can give Aunty Hermione a cuddle, ok?" Andromeda tried to bargain, but the youngster was not interested in the deal.

"No!" he shouted, still trying to escape his high-chair. "I don't like 'nana."

"You ate a banana yesterday and said it was your favourite fruit," Andromeda reminded him patiently, a small smile coming to her lips.

Hermione suppressed a laugh and walked over to ruffle his hair, before leaning next to his Grandmother. "Teddy Lupin," she said, looking straight into his brown eyes, "If you eat the rest of your banana, you can play wizards chess with me once your Grandma and I have finished talking. Deal, Mister?"

He considered this for a moment, pulling a very serious 'thinking face'. Andromeda was trying very hard to not laugh. "Fine," he eventually said and reluctantly had a spoonful of the mashed fruit. He twisted his face, emphasising how much he 'obviously' hated the fruit.

"I'll put you on baby-sitting duty at this rate," Andromeda said gratefully as he finished the rest of his snack without complaint; proof of ridiculous toddlers could be. Carefully, she extracted him from his chair, much to his delight. He squirmed out of her arms almost immediately, and before she knew it, Hermione had a very happy toddler balanced on her hip with his arms around her neck.

"Hullo, 'Mione," he mumbled into her curls.

"Come through," Andromeda said after flicking her wand to clear away the dishes. "I've dug out some old family things I stole when I left home. They might be useful."

Still with Teddy in her arms, Hermione followed Andromeda into the cosy lounge room. On the coffee table lay a dusty old photo album, as well as some leather-bound books, all bearing the Black family crest and motto.

Once Hermione and Andromeda had settled in Teddy with his toys by the large bay window, the older woman reached for an old photograph on top of the fire place. Hermione hadn't noticed it before, but as she looked at it, she realised that it was a picture of the Black sisters as children. All three had near identical faces, but there were just enough subtle differences to make them apart. While Andy had the biggest eyes, Narcissa's nose was thinner than her sisters, and Bellatrix's lips were fuller. With both Bellatrix and Andy having such darker hair, they could easily have passed as twins; Narcissa's blonde hair was a stark contrast. "You three were adorable," Hermione said. The picture, of course, moved; the girls went from smiling, to waving, to Narcissa getting distracted by a butterfly and walking out of the photo.

"Picture perfect family," Andromeda said, not bothering to hide the annoyance in her voice. "Once."

"You had a privileged upbringing, didn't you?" Hermione asked, even though she knew the answer. The Black's wealth was legendary, Sirius had told her briefly about it when she was in her 5th year at Hogwarts. To her surprise, it hadn't come from illegal means, as most assumed. Their family had merely been excellent businesspeople for centuries.

"Very much so," Andromeda said. "The Manor I grew up in was more than three times the size of Grimmauld place. I'm sure it would even rival Narcissa's."

"Did you three have a good relationship with your parents?" Hermione asked, taking out her notebook.

"With Mother, yes. Father was disappointed at not getting sons, but by the time Bella went to Hogwarts, he had mellowed out a bit," Andromeda said. "Cissy was his little princess. And with Bella's excellent grades, he realised she would do the family name proud. That's why I think there might be _something_ to this curse theory," she continued strongly, "she was so focused on school, and looking back now, was practically fighting for equal rights for women. She wanted to follow Father into a career of magical trading and investments, a first for noble women. Even at 13, she started following Father around during the holidays, watching him work with international wizarding companies. Lestrange Sr., however, did not want his son marrying a woman more focused on her career than continuing the family line. I'm willing to swear he made that marriage arrangement very difficult for father. There were a lot of clauses, I'm positive. Bella mentioned it once...it was just like a business deal."

Of the notes Hermione had so far managed to scribble, she repeatedly underlined the fourth one – _Bellatrix Black – feminist? Business woman?_ She knew Minerva would most likely know a bit about this, a student's career pathway was always in their file. She was curious to see what it said. "Do you think joining Voldemort was part of the...well, to use your word, deal?" Hermione asked.

"I would seriously consider the possibility," Andromeda said firmly. "Lestrange Sr. himself was one of the original 7. His sons were practically _bred_ for the cause. Rabastan was born to be a Death Eater, just like his brother. Bella wasn't. That's why I think he would have ended up in Azkaban anyway, curse or no curse. Even after all this..." she sighed, "I want to believe my sister – _sisters_ , even – have goodness in them. Cissy found hers again, and eventually listened to it."

At the mention of Narcissa, Hermione closed her book, and cocked her head to the side "Would you like me to see if Narcissa would like to meet with you?" she asked, staring straight into Andromeda's brown eyes.

Andromeda averted her gaze to the floor, confliction across her features. "Given the circumstances, we'll probably see each other sooner rather than later," she muttered, thinking out loud. "But yes, if you're seeing her again, mention it and see what she says."

Hermione nodded. "I'm having dinner with Draco later, I'll get him to talk to her."

"Forgive me, Hermione, but I am curious – how on earth did a member of the Golden Trio end up friends with a Malfoy?"

Hermione laughed. She had been asked this question many times before. "Honestly, most of us who returned to re-do our 7th year became firm friends. But Draco and I - we ended up partnering up for group assignments because he's actually smart when he puts the effort in. Over time, he opened up more. There was a lot of post traumatic stress he had to work through, and so did I. We found it easy to talk after a while. I think the fact he's friends with Neville is an even bigger shock, personally."

"Uncle Neville?" Teddy piped up excitedly from his play area.

"Yes, pumpkin, we're talking about Uncle Neville," Andromeda said as Teddy went back to playing with his dinosaurs. "What does Draco think about this curse theory?"

"He thinks it's true," Hermione said carefully, "but from a logical point-of-view, his actions could easily be classed as chronic PTSD and depression. Not to mention, Voldemort threatened his parents to get him to comply, as well."

Andromeda shook her head, sighing. "This whole situation is a mess. The verdicts that could be overturned... Poor Kingsley."

"I know, the repercussions of this investigation could become quite insane," Hermione said. Remembering she was there to collect information, she turned the subject back to Bellatrix. "I'm assuming there was a definite behavioural change in your sister during her teen years?"

Andromeda nodded. "Yes, and I'm trying very hard to remember what order things happened in. I try not to bring up these memories too often..."

"Take your time," Hermione said kindly, letting the older witch think for a while. She took the time to flick through the photo album. There weren't too many pictures of people, most were just of rooms in what Hermione assumed was the (very luxurious) Black Manor, as well as the most spectacular views of the Scottish highlands. One picture caught her eye and actually made her smile – Bellatrix, probably around 12, and a young Narcissa playing a grand piano together. The decorations showed it was Christmas, and both sisters had holly threaded through their curls. _So innocent_ , she thought. To think who they would become a decade later...

Andromeda saw what Hermione was looking at. "Believe it or not, that's Cissy teaching Bella how to play, not the other way 'round," she smiled.

"Did you take all these?" Hermione asked.

"Yes, I was gifted with a camera when I was eight. Anyway," she continued, "Bella was told of the marriage when she was 14. The wedding as scheduled for a week after she finished her 7th year. Merlin, we spent hours lying awake at night thinking of escape plans together... On her 15th birthday, however, Lestrange Sr. invited her and Father to Castle Lestrange. Apparently, it was to get the engagement ring sized correctly, but now I look back, I'd never see her wear a short-sleeved top or dress since. When she came home, it was like her fire had gone out. I thought it was just depression..."

"Like Draco," Hermione murmured, writing it down.

"I see what you mean about the logical way of looking at it," Andromeda said sadly. "But even after I'd been disowned and I learned what Dark Magic Bella learned, I could never see her as someone capable of torturing people. She hated the sound of screaming." Her eyes had started watering, and Hermione had a whole new respect for the witch to recount some of her most painful memories.

"I have to remain unbiased and objective," Hermione said softly, "but I confess, there is a small part of me that hopes you can bring your family back together, Andy. This will be a long road ahead and if the curse is real, Bellatrix is going to need as much support as she can get. Especially if she isn't aware of her crimes."

"Be prepared for the shitstorm of a public outcry when people find out she's alive," Andromeda said, trying to make herself smile, albeit sarcastically. "And if _you're_ defending her...Merlin knows what the Prophet will write."

"Oh god, don't jinx it!" Hermione said with a laugh, not unfamiliar at being gossiped about. "I think Kingsley is considering confidentiality contracts. If this breaks..."

"It wont," Andromeda assured her. "Also," she picked up the leather-bound books on the table, "there are some early letters Bella and I sent each other. I haven't read them in over 20 years, but there might be something that shows her mental state changing over time."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Andy, this is brilliant," she said. "If we can match it up to a timeline-" she stopped suddenly, bringing her mind back down to earth. "I should stop getting ahead of myself," she said quietly. "I don't even know if I'll go more than one meeting with her. And I really don't want you to get your hopes up if this all turns out to be a rumour."

Andromeda was silent. "You're right," she sighed. "We've got to take this one day at a time. Bellatrix could still be the deranged fanatic we know her as."

 _The dangerous fanatic that killed your only daughter_ , Hermione added in her mind. Her eyes flickered to Teddy, still playing by the window with his dinosaur toys. Bellatrix was the reason he was an orphan being raised by his Grandmother.

"You thinking of Dora, too?" Andromeda asked in a small voice.

Hermione nodded. A tear fell down her cheek, and she wiped it away hastily. She suddenly felt guilty for embarking on a mission to potentially destroy all closure Bellatrix's victims, and their families, had. Merlin forbid there were more underaged ones who had committed just as many atrocities.

"Dora was a champion of getting the full story," Andromeda said, reaching for Hermione's hand, "She would want us to investigate this."

"We need the truth," she said determinedly. "And with all this information, Andy – you've given me a head start. I'm sure I'll probably owl you with more questions soon."

"I'd expect nothing less," the older witch said. "Owl, floo, whatever, any time. I'll tell Teddy you'll play chess with him next visit, I get the feeling you want to go off and poke through those letters."

Hermione laughed. "You would be correct. At least he ate his fruit, though."

"He's probably already forgotten about the deal he agreed to, anyway," Andromeda said lightly, looking at him with a smile. He was still playing with his dinosaur toys, staging battles between the different breeds, muttering to himself and making battle noises.

* * *

Hermione had left Andromeda's with a flurry of contradictory emotions, leaving her confused as to what she counted as truth, fact or biased world-view. As she read through some of Bellatrix and Andy's communications, she had to stop every few sentences to gather her thoughts and ground herself. Part of her was screaming, _this is the woman who tortured you and hunted your race for sport_ , another was shouting, _Neville! Sirius! Tonks! Ollivander!_ , while her sympathetic side was horrified that such a sweet, caring young girl writing of planning a surprise party for her youngest sister had been forced against her will to do Lord Voldemort's bidding, making her nothing more than an empty vessel for evil. The fourth side was reminding her that this is a simple magical investigation to prove someone's innocence or guilt, nothing more, nothing less. A simple psych evaluation. Emotions weren't needed.

She had pages of notes scattered around her, where she had copied certain paragraphs of the old letters for future reference. Young Bellatrix was completely unrecognisable compared to the Death Eater the world cowered before. No hint of the extremist views she clung on to for all of her adult life – although, going by the dates, she'd only read letters from Bellatrix when she was 13 or younger. She wanted to continue, but it was already well past midday and she wanted to speak to her former Professor.

Hermione had been pleased that Minerva had taken the young Gryffindor under her wing whens he returned after the war. As she had finished her final year of magical education, the two had emerged as friends by the end of it. They worked together re-building the castle, having to find counter-curses to fix the dark magic-inflicted craters the ancient building was riddled with. The large crack in the great hall had taken six months to close completely.

Considering her hatred of Floo-ing, and the fact she had been so swamped with work for the past year, she had seen an awful lot of people and done an awful lot of fire travel over the past day. Something told her the universe was making up for lost time. As she stepped back into the green-flamed grate, handbag of notes and notebooks held securely against her chest, she instructed, "Hogwarts – Headmistress's Office" to the fire.

A moment later, the circular office appeared before her. It had been redecorated since she was last there – gone were the spindly wooden stools Dumbledore preferred; in their place were comfortable leather armchairs on the hearth by the fire.

"Ah, hello, Hermione," Minerva said, walking from behind the large desk, taking off her spectacles. "How did talks with Andromeda go?"

"Very well, thank you," she said, brushing ash off her white pants. "It's going to be very interesting chronicling a timeline."

"Well, I hope her student file aids in that. Come through, I'll get a elf to bring up some sandwiches and pumpkin juice."

As she followed the Headmistress through the room, Hermione once again felt at home. She loved Hogwarts. The happy memories from the castle far outweighed the bad ones. It was a place of hope, and a small smile crept across her lips.

"Poppy has also sent up her records," Minerva said after sending an order to the kitchens. "She'll owl you if she find any more information. Here-" she handed a stack of files across the desk, "-is everything we have. I'm owling duplicates to Kingsley. I've also added few notes to the files for you, as well – just some of my own personal recollections I thought upon after the meeting earlier."

Hermione smiled, despite her shock at how many pieces of paper were now entrusted to her. Minerva was always very thorough when it came to information. "What was Rabastan like?" she asked, taking his file off the top and looking at the Hogwarts Enrolment form. "He gets overshadowed by his brother and Father in most reports I've read, and Andromeda made a point of not being friendly with him."

Silence fell as Minerva thought, eyes glazing over. Hermione let her think. "A menace," she said truthfully, after a while. "He was almost expelled for practising the Cruciatus curse on a student's cat in his 5th year. The only reason they stayed was because Slughorn argued that he was a child, and had just learned the curse in Defence Against The Dark Arts class, and therefore was 'naturally curious about the effects', I believe were the words he used in his report." She scowled at the memory.

As horrified as Hermione was, it was a decent argument Slughorn submitted. "Well, Moody did show us the Unforgivables in 4th year," Hermione mused darkly. "I can see how that would be a fair defence. Was he punished?"

At this, Minerva's lips thinned. "I pushed for expulsion, given his history of bullying and violence. Albus wanted him suspended, but at the insistence of Slughorn, he was instead given detention for the rest of their year, banned from Hogsmeade trips and had an official warning from the Ministry...that _didn't_ go on his record. Richardo Lestrange, his father, was good friends with the Minister at the time."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "Merlin's beard," she breathed, almost in disbelief.

The sound of the office door creaking open broke her out of her thoughts. A house-elf walked in, carrying the food and drinks Minerva had requested. Her stomach grumbled at the sight of roast beef sandwiches, she had completely forgotten to eat breakfast in her rush to get to Grimmauld Place. "Oh, I've missed Hogwarts cooking," she said appreciatively.

"It certainly has an air of magic about it," Minerva agreed. "And as you know, we do treat our elves well." She gave a knowing look.

Hermione gave a small smile. She, Harry and Ron had made sure the elves were cared for after the battle; many had fought to defend the school, it Kreacher had essentially been their squadron leader. All of their names had been carved into the memorial wall commemorating the list of fighters. And, to her delight, the Hogwarts elves were now paid for their work. She and Minerva had worked on the legislation together once she had graduated.

As much as she wanted to stay, Hermione knew she would be restless unless she was working on the task at hand. Minerva understood, and wrapped up extra sandwiches in a napkin for her, insisting she must keep up her food intake due to the expected rising stress levels. "A conflicted soul takes a lot of energy," she warned. "Let me know how you get on, I told Kingsley my services and advice are readily available."

"You really are wonderful," Hermione said, carefully balancing the sandwiches on top of the files.

"I'll take down the anti-apparation jinx, I never trust paperwork in the Floo network," the Headmistress said, taking out her wand and muttering a few spells in Latin. "Off you go. Let me know if you need anything." She patted Hermione's shoulder, careful not to displace the balancing act her former student had going on.

"Thank you. For everything," Hermione said, before twisting on the spot and visualising her living room. _Which still needs to be unpacked!_ she reminded herself as she arrived.

* * *

She still had a few hours before she was due to meet Draco. As soon as she had gotten home and wolfed down the rest of the sandwiches and juice, she had taken all of her evidence to the second bedroom. It had still been full of boxes, but a simple shrinking spell had turned them into the size of matchboxes and she'd put them all in the corner, leaving a large area of floor her her to spread across, since her furniture wasn't due for delivery for another few days. Ahe started flicking through the school file of Bellatrix Black; every few minutes she would remind herself to not let her emotions come into play, neither sympathetic ones or negative ones. It was baffling her to see the child behind the mask. Despite high grades, her file was littered with detention slips, often for hexing fellow students who insulted her sisters. It had become clear that family was the most important thing to Bellatrix. Hermione wondered how someone with this much devotion had been able grow up to murder her own blood.

At last, she had made it to Bellatrix's fourth year. She turned briefly back to the letters Andromeda had lent her and quickly searched for notes dated from 1965 and onwards. Next to them, she opened the medical file Madam Pomfrey had given her, again looking for year 1965. Right away, an entry caught her eye, just over a month into term;

 _October 6 – Andromeda Black requests sleeping aid potion for elder sister. Cites 'family issues' as reason, and claims her sister refused to go to the Hospital Wing. Note sent to Prof. Slughorn to keep watch on both siblings._

Brow furrowed, she turned to the letters. She found several pages from the weeks leading up to the potion request. Bellatrix and Andromeda had written a multitude of short notes to each other.

 _You don't need to write letters to me, Bella, we can talk in person, like normal people. -A_

 _I don't want to see people. Make sure no one finds these. Mother said it took her months to accept Father's proposal. She warned me I'd be like this. -B_

 _Mother still managed to eat and do her school work. If you don't come back to the common room by midnight, I'm going to Slughorn. You need sleep. -A_

 _I don't even care. If I get expelled for failing classes, good. No one will want to marry me after that. It'll break the conditions. -B_

The mention of 'conditions' made her curious, especially since Adromeda had shared her suspicions earlier. Following notes showed Andromeda asked for specifics, but Bellatrix refused to say. Hermione couldn't tell if the teenaged Bellatrix was scared of the Lestrange's, or whether she had a strong disliking of them. The language she used pointed to either possibility.

Wanting to get a bit more information on how the Lestrange's were, she pushed aside the files on Bellatrix and reached for those on Rabastan. Attached to the inside cover of the file, Hermione found a note from Minerva.

 _A lot of these files were erased by his Father. I'm doing all I can to track down any copies that may have been created. But a bit of history for you - The Lestrange family have been known practitioners of Dark Arts for centuries. Bartholomew F. Lestrange (1675 – 1788) was thought to be the author of Potente Liquadis, a potion book so dark it was banned from publication three years after it was first published. Only one copy is rumoured to remain, and it's in the Vaults at the Ministry. He apparently married his half-sister and trained their children in Unforgivable curses from the age of 5. Since then, the family has been notoriously private. All of this darkness would be present in Rabastan's blood. He and his brother were monsters when they attended Hogwarts. I doubt a cursed Dark Mark would have made any difference to Rabastan's fate._

 _-Minerva_

"Oh boy," Hermione breathed, seeing a lot of blank pages as she flicked through the Lestrange file. There were a multitude of detention slips that would have rivaled the Marauder's efforts, the only difference being that the reasons for the discipline had been removed completely. Judging by the length of the detentions – some lasting for more than a month at a time – Hermione guessed they were rather serious infractions. She almost didn't want to know what a twelve year old boy could do to warrant a quidditch ban for an entire school year. She searched for the incident Minerva had told her of, but found the pages for his 5th year weren't just blank – they were missing completely. Lestrange Sr. must have had very, very good connections to get it removed from file.

It reeked of corruption, something Hermione knew transversed both Muggle and Wizard worlds alike. But to see it in a _school_ seemed, to her, completely preposterous. Children shouldn't need to warrant behaviour that requires parents blackmailing the teachers, or the Board of Governors. She shook her head, figuring that Rabastan's file wouldn't provide much help. She hoped Minerva could track down more information, but she wasn't holding her breath. It would probably be easier for a Ministry official to do; she made a mental note to mention this to Kingsley if Minerva hadn't already.

As the hours passed, and with her handwriting becoming more and more intelligible, Hermione forced herself to stop. She had gone back to reading Bellatrix's letters and medical file together, and had been incredibly draining, both physically and emotionally. There had definitely been a change in her personality that even puberty and mental health could not explain.

After trading her flats for a pair of heels, and with a slick of red lipstick to try to look less like the exhausted corpse she felt like, she met Draco at a small muggle bar she frequented where the timber walls were lined with old books and antique lanterns. She had made it her personal challenge to introduce the Malfoy heir to the world he had been taught to hate from birth. So far, the only complaint he had was that Muggles didn't serve Firewhiskey.

"Granger," a familiar voice drawled.

She smirked at the greeting. Some things never change. "Malfoy," she replied curtly, before both broke into wide smiles and hugged "Let's get a drink, I've had a hell of a day...and a lot of it concerns you."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Let's get several," he deadpanned. "I think we'll need them."


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, after talking long into the night with Draco about his family with a few too many Martini's, Hermione found herself walking towards Kingsley's office, a take-away coffee cup being her source of life at that point. The Minister had owled her an ID card that enabled her to skip the security queues, much to her relief. It had finally hit her just how serious this investigation is, and she was a lot more nervous than she'd have liked.

As she walked into his office, she learned this wasn't a one-on-one meeting. The Minister was sitting casually on his desk, and two St. Mungo's Healers were present, along with an angry Harry. On opposite corners of the room sat Narcissa Malfoy and Adromeda Tonks, who were both looking a little bit lost, and Draco was leaning against the back wall, clearly not having had much sleep. There were four Department of Mystery employees by the window, all appearing exhausted. Just as she turned to greet the others, the flames in Kingsley's fire grate turned green, and Minerva McGonagall stepped out, followed by Madam Pomfrey. Judging by everyone's expressions, they hadn't been told there was a group meeting. Hermione's eyes flickered between the Black sisters, both of them looking a little shocked to be in the same room together after nearly 25 years apart.

"Thank you all for coming," Kingsley said once everyone had found a seat. "I'm sure by now you have guessed what this meeting is for. Rabastan Lestrange is ready for questioning, so we're starting it _today_. Over the next few weeks, or months, we are all going to be working very closely together. I just wanted to get everyone up to speed as to where we are in the investigation currently." With a wave of his hand, he conjured a cork-board from mid-air, which had three columns; one for Bellatrix Black-Lestrange, one for Rabastan Lestrange and one for Draco Malfoy, all with photos and criminal records listed, as well as pictures of their Dark Mark scars. Hermione frowned when she saw the difference in scars; Bellatrix's was red, while Rabastan's was grey, like so many others she had seen. "Mr. Malfoy, first off" Kingsley said, "we need a photo of your arm if you don't mind?"

Without looking at anyone, Draco carefully drew back his black sleeve, while the Med-Wizard came over with a camera, snapping a shot. "Red, like Black's," he said simply. The photo popped from the camera and he pinned it to Draco's side of the board for all to see.

"But Lestrange's is grey?" Higgins, an Unspeakable, asked, walking closer to the board. He took out a magnifying glass to assess each of the three photos. "Mrs. Malfoy, just out of curiosity, what does your husband's scar look like?"

"Grey," Narcissa said, eyes flickering from scar image to scar image on the board before her. "Are those bruises on Bella's-?" she began, eyes narrowing, but stopped as the female Healer placed her hand on the blonde's shoulder.

"She is fine," Prue assured her. "I'll get my deputy, Healer Rosier, to fill you in on her condition once the meeting is over, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Curious," Higgins murmured under the exchange. "Mind if I make copies, Minister?"

"Go ahead," Kingsley said as Higgins flicked his wand at the board twice – once to make duplicates, another to send them, presumably, to his office. "So far," the Minister continued, "Rabastan Lestrange is awake and coherent. Healers Bletchley and Rosier-" he gestured to the Med Witch and Wizard, "-have agreed that he is ready to have his first evaluation this afternoon. Bellatrix, however, has yet to wake up properly. For now, we will just be letting her rest."

"She's otherwise ok though?" Andromeda asked, looking to the healers.

"Apart from self-inflicted bruising and scratches, and a slight fever, she is, otherwise, physically sound, but very underweight." Uritch said kindly. "We are unsure of her mental state, though. We know she has violent nightmares, but they seemed to have settled in the past 18 hours and her restraints have now been removed."

Narcissa turned to look at the Healers. "The violence may have stopped, but she'll have those dreams for at least another week. Then insomnia will set in, because she'll be too scared to sleep. It took her a full two months to have a proper nights rest after the breakout in '96." She sounded almost defeated as she said her piece. Hermione was pleased to see Healer Bletchley write down the new information.

"We are treating Bellatrix and Rabastan with the best care for the moment," Kingsley said. "Despite their horrendous crimes-" Hermione saw him look at Harry, "-it is now a case of _innocent until proven guilty_."

"I take it there are security measures in place, Minister?" Minerva asked.

Kingsley nodded. "Indeed. We've sectioned off an entire floor of St. Mungo's hospital and apart from Prue, Uritch, myself, and our guard, Auror Davis, no one else has set foot on the level. There are spells in place to prevent anyone from wandering in, and the floo grate is private. I cannot stress enough the importance of keeping this secret. If anyone found out Bellatrix Lestrange didn't die, the public would-"

"Would think a new war was a high possibility," Harry said, a slight accusatory tone to his voice.

Kingsley chose to ignore his statement. "Higgins, have you found any kind of spell to match the theory?"

"No exact match yet, Sir," the Unspeakbale said. "But these pictures of the scars are...interesting. I'd like to know what all the other Death Eater's Marks now look like. Right now, it's just..." he trailed off, shaking his head. This potential magic seemed more complex than they were expecting.

Kingsley sighed, rubbing at his eyes with his dark hands. "If the evaluations lead to evidence of this apparent curse, we can make a trip to Azkaban to study the Marks. Until then, a trip like that would lead to a lot of sticky questions from the finance department."

"The truth will get out eventually, Minister," Poppy Pomfrey said softly. "I do hope you're prepared for that."

"Especially if the curse is true," Harry added. "I don't think Neville, or Augusta Longbottom would be happy with Bellatrix Lestrange free to walk the streets. Even you, Andy – she killed Tonks."

"Please don't remind me," Andromeda said darkly. "But I wouldn't be able to sleep knowing there's potentially innocent people locked up in Azkaban, guilty of nothing more than being controlled by Voldemort."

"It's a very confusing case," Kingsley said loudly to cut out the chatter. "We'll have to take this one day at a time. Right now, we need to see if this curse is real. Hermione, are you ready to see Rabastan?"

This was the question Hermione had been dreading. After all she had learned of the Lestrange family, especially when Draco had shared his knowledge with her last night, she was legitimately scared to face the man. Even wandless, he had caused enough trouble at Hogwarts through physical means. She had started to believe Minerva and Andy's thoughts of him; he was born into a dark family, happy and willing to serve Voldemort. "There will be security present?" she asked, trying to keep the tremble from her voice.

"Absolutely," Kingsley and Prue said at the same time.

"Then yes. I'm ready."

"Would one of us be able to sit in, as well, Minister?" Higgins asked. "Or watch through a glass window? His body language will be of a help for us," he explained.

"Prue?" Kingsley asked.

The Healer considered for a moment. "You can watch through the glass. He may be calm at the moment, but from what we've learned, his temper is very volatile. I don't want too many people in the room with him."

Hermione was unable to stop a shiver going down her spine. _There's security. And spells. And restraints. He's wandless. You'll be fine_ , she told herself firmly. All logic pointed to her safety, but old shadows of war were a constant presence in her mind. She stared at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap.

"All right, then," Kingsley said, breaking the silence, "Hermione, head to St. Mungo's now now with Prue. I'll join you soon."

The older witch smiled at Hermione, helping her up. "Don't stress," she whispered as they went over to the fire.

* * *

The strong smell of disinfectant greeted Hermione as she stepped into Prue's office from the grate. Despite being carpeted and with comfy leather arm chairs, the scent had managed to creep under the door. She looked around; there were screens displaying security videos from the ward outside. Her breath caught in her throat as the image of Bellatrix Lestrange spread across the screen, although the terrifying woman was asleep. Hermione looked away, a chill creeping down her spine again.

"I'll get you some tea, you look like death warmed up," Prue said, heading to the small kitchenette. "Has Kingsley given you a proper update yet, or just what you heard before?'

"Just from before," Hermione answered, taking a seat. "I've been conducting my own research."

"Oh?" Prue asked, setting down a tray of tea, biscuits and fruit.

"Just about their history," she said, taking a grape. "When Harry Potter defeated Voldemort, Albus Dumbledore and Harry studied his past and childhood. It explained his behaviour. I've done the same with the Lestrange's. Rabastan seemed to be destined for this life from birth, but..."

"Bellatrix not-so-much?"

"There is evidence already to show that a curse could easily have been possible," Hermione said quickly. "Her … behaviour, I suppose you could say, is similar to what Draco Malfoy went through."

"There's something faulty with the curse theory," Prue said quietly. "I've treated a lot of Death Eaters and I've only ever seen one other scar that matches Bellatrix's and Draco's. Thought nothing of it a the time, of course."

"Do you remember who it was?" Hermione asked.

The Healer shook her head. "No, but I'm trying to."

Hermione reached in her briefcase for her notebook and a pen. "Forgive me for asking, but how did you come to treat so many Death Eaters?"

"I was the Azkaban medic before, during, and just after the first war," she said, a faint hint of a smile. "I uh...exchanged my Healing services for a lighter sentence for my sister. Like my deputy, Uritch, Kingsley chose us because we have ties to the Dark Arts. We would treat Bellatrix and Rabastan with the respect and care they need."

Hermione wasn't surprised by this information. "I had a feeling a normal Healer wouldn't take up this job opportunity," she said. "Especially since Frank and Alice Longbottom are three floors below." She reached for her tea, hoping to calm her racing heart. Just as she was going to ask about what sort of questions she would be allowed to ask the patients, one of the monitors started beeping. Prue abandoned her drink and rushed to the ward, yelling 'wait there!' over her shoulder to Hermione.

Hermione's eyes flashed to the monitors, where all cameras were on the previously sleeping Death Eater. Bellatrix Lestrange had woken up. And she did not seem happy about it.

* * *

Suffice it to say, Hermione's meeting with Rabastan had been postponed. Both Kingsley and Healer Uritch ran from the fireplace moments after Prue had run off, both looking concerned. Hermione watched the scene on the monitors, with the Minister and Healer running into Bellatrix's glass room to help the med-witch.

Bellatrix was thrashing on her bed, and Hermione could hear the screams through the walls. Prue and Uritch were trying, and ultimately failing, to hold her down. For someone so frail, she was stronger than she appeared. Her hair was as wild as Hermione remembered, although littered with a bit more grey. Eventually, given Bellatrix's weakened state, she grew too tired to resist the Healers. She quietened down, staying still, but her chest was heaving.

"It's ok, Mrs. Lestrange," Prue said. Hermione's eyes widened as the words appeared on the screen. If she hadn't been so focused on what she was watching, she would have been impressed at the monitoring technology the hospital used. "We're here to help. You're in St. Mungo's Hospital."

At this, Bellatrix's mouth fell open. "Hospital?" the subtitles supplied. "What am I- why am I in hospital?"

"What's the last thing you remember, Mrs. Lestrange?" asked Uritch patietnly.

Bellatrix frowned. "Cold," she said eventually. "Just cold." Hermione wished she could hear the vocal inflections.

Uritch made a note on his clipboard. "Well, you're warm now, Mrs. Lestrange We'll get some food sent up for you in a moment-"

"Why am I here?" Bellatrix demanded. She looked almost scared.

"We'll explain everything soon," Prue said, holding the witch's hand. "But right now, we need to get your strength up. An Azkaban diet isn't designed for good health."

The mention of Azkaban made the witch freeze, before she pulled her legs up, resting her chin on her knees. She closed her eyes, face contorting as Hermione guessed she was being assaulted by memories. Her reaction made Hermione feel a little bit of sympathy, she looked horrified and confused. "Is he really dead?" she asked.

Prue and Uritch locked eyes, the latter with a raised eyebrow. Hermione could clearly see him mouth ' _Voldemort_ '? at his superior. Prue shrugged, before looking back at Bellatrix. "Who's 'he', dear?"

A look of intense pain flashed across her face, and she hit her head against the back of her bed. "You know exactly who I mean," she shrieked. Hermione didn't even need the subtitles, she could clearly be heard through the walls.

With an oncoming meltdown beginning, Prue tried to hold Bellatrix's shoulders while Uritch placed a cushioning charm on the wall. "Yes, he's dead," Prue said, staring into Bellatrix's dark eyes.

The patient grunted in pain, clutching at her head. A moment later, however, she calmed, and, for the first time, a small smile crept upon her thin lips. She breathed a sigh of relief, and through the monitors, Hermione could see a faint hint of colour return to the murderess's cheeks. "How long?"

"Two years," Kingsley said. "This...pleases you?"

Bellatrix frowned, again, and the confusion in her face had changed briefly to a look of recognition as she looked at the Minister. "I...I don't know." She bit her lip, staring at her hands resting on her bony knees. Her eyes twitched, before she started shaking out her mass of black curls. It was almost like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. There was certainly something different about the Bellatrix that had tortured her, and the Bellatrix displayed on the screen.

Lost in her thoughts while gazing at the witch now settling in with a tray of food, Hermione jumped when the door opened. "Ah, good, you've been paying attention," Prue said, making a beeline for her desk. "You can see Rabastan as soon as I've filled out Mrs. Lestrange's paperwork."

"Did you expect her to react this way?" Hermione asked.

Despite furiously writing away, Prue still managed to answer Hermione's question, albeit sounding a little distracted. "Well, we were prepared for a lot more violence. Right now...she's basically a yoga instructor compared to what she was like in the Azkaban cells, believe me."

Hermione couldn't hold back a laugh at the stark comparison. "In theory, this different reaction could be because of the absence of Dementors, though," she reasoned, more to herself than the Healer. She was trying hard to remember the numerous crimes Bellatrix had committed. Every time she felt sympathy, she felt like she was betraying her friends.

"She's been without Dementors before," Prue said, looking over her spectacles. "Have you ever seen her this calm?"

Hermione frowned. "We need to speak to Narcissa. She can't be tried for her war crimes now, I'm sure she'd be comfortable giving us a more in-depth account of Bellatrix after the breakout."

"I was just thinking the same thing," Kingsley said, coming into the office. "Azkaban records of her behaviour can't be relied upon for this. Same goes for Mr. Lestrange. I'll head back to my office and send out an owl now. Hermione, good luck with Rabastan."

"Thank you, Kingsley," Hermione said as he disappeared into the green flames. She readied her thoughts. She completely expected to have her blood status ridiculed the moment she stepped into Rabastan's room, and she knew there was a possibility he would flat-out refuse to talk to her. But, she realised, if there _was_ a curse that made the under-aged recruits have their minds controlled, then maybe now the curse was broken, they had free will over their opinions. She stewed over that thought while Prue finished filling out some forms.

"Well, it's now or never," Prue said, finally placing down her quill. "If the Unspeakable is late, so be it."

Hermione nodded and followed Prue back out into the ward, smoothing over her blouse nervously. She was relieved to see two burly security guards pacing the hall, wands in hand and _protego_ shields in place. They were taking no chances.

Uritch was ahead of them, getting the interview room set up. Three of the four walls were clear glass, while the fourth was black. She guessed that the Unspeakable would be hiding behind that one once he arrived. Two chairs and a small table were in the middle, handcuffs placed in the centre. Hermione was glad to know Lestrange would be restrained. If he was just as evil as he was in the war, he wouldn't hesitate to put his hands around her throat. "Head to the watchroom," Prue said, pointing to the black glass. "We'll get him seated then you can be sent in. Rosier and I will be in the room with you, there will be a shield in place from the middle of the table, and the guards will be just outside the door."

All too quickly, Rabastan was walked to the room. Hermione watched him through the glass, balling her hands into fist to stop them from shaking. Even though he looked frail and thin, he was still menacing to look at. His features were strong and aristocratic, and his face was twisted into a dark scowl while dark, matted hair fell over his eyes. His arms were littered with tattoos, most of them being runes Hermione could easily decipher; she knew, however, Azkaban inmates had their own code for the symbols and her translations probably wouldn't make sense.

 _Stop over-thinking_ , she told herself, taking her eyes off the runes. The translations were neither here nor there. Through the glass, she saw Prue beckon her over. She exhaled sharply, notebook and pen in hand, and after one moment of questioning her own sanity, she walked into the glass room. She was relieved that the door remained open, and knowing Prue and Uritch were three steps behind her made her feel safe.

She sat, placing her hands in her lap so the Death Eater wouldn't see them shake. She had never been this close to Rabastan before, and her breath caught in her throat as he smirked at her. "The Mudblood girl? Seriously? This is who's questioning me?" he scoffed at Uritch, as if Hermione weren't even in the room.

"I'm investigating a claim that could ease your Azkaban sentence, Mr. Lestrange," Hermione said clearly, looking straight at him.

He laughed. "You want me back on the streets? Bella _really_ did a good job with you, mudblood."

Hermione ignored the jab. "Under questioning several weeks ago, one of your fellow Death Eaters spoke of a curse enclosed within the Dark Mark branded on those who joined under the age of 17. You are one of three Death Eaters still alive who fit that criteria," she explained, leaning back in her chair.

Rabastan cocked an eyebrow at her, before letting out a bark-like laugh. "That's a fairy-tale. The Dark Lord didn't need to control the faithful. We were trusted beyond all others. Anyone with the Mark acted of their own free will and with true devotion."

Hermione wanted to bite back; remind him that Snape worked for Dumbledore all along, or that the Malfoy family ended up defecting mid-battle. But she knew that would just incite him. Instead, she asked, "So you believe that after receiving the Dark Mark at 16, you never felt as though your actions weren't your own? Everything Voldemort-" she couldn't help but feel like smirking as he glared at her for mentioning the Dark Lords name. "-asked you to do, you did because you _wanted_ to?"

"Can I talk to someone with a better blood status than you?" he said after a while. "I make a point of not answering questions from filth."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You would prefer to spend the rest of your life in Azkaban rather than potentially getting a re-trial simply because of my blood?" she asked incredulously.

He leaned in, shackles clanking on the table. "I am proud of every life I've taken. Every _Avada Kedavra_ and _Crucio_ I cast, I did so knowing my beliefs were the true way of life. I will not renounce my faith. That curse story has been a rumour since the Dark Lord's school days. It's not true. Now _fuck_ off and be grateful you've got pureblood's guarding you. I can assure you, my respect for their lineage is the only reason I haven't snapped your pretty little neck yet."

"You're in shackles and wandless. I'd like to see you try," Hermione sneered, giving in to the small dark side of her she rarely let out. "Enjoy prison. You wont be leaving that god-forsaken island again."

She walked out, head held high. Even if the curse was real, Rabastan was clearly this evil naturally. What was the point of questioning someone so proud of the horrors they had committed? The theory could only hold up if the Death Eater had remorse, something which Lestrange evidently lacked.

"Are you ok, Miss Granger?" one of he guards asked, catching up to her, shield down.

"I'm fine," she said. "I knew that meeting would be a disaster."

He sighed sympathetically. "Head into the office. Boss Lady will get the kitchens to send you up some lunch. Are you still going to interview _that one_?" he asked, pointing at Bellatrix, who was gazing at them from her bed.

"Once Prue deems her medically fit enough," Hermione said, although after Rabastan, she was much more apprehensive than she was before. She looked over at Bellatrix, who was now pacing around her bed, head down and shoulders hunched. The body language alone nearly convinced the young witch that the curly haired Death Eater wasn't nothing like her brother-in-law.

She turned into the office, gratefully taking a seat in one of the armchairs. The shock of what just happened was settling in now, and her breathing became laboured as she tried to stop herself from shaking. She felt foolish for believing a Death Eater like that could ever have a single drop of goodness in him. She cursed herself for her naiveté, feeling far too old to be able to give people the benefit of the doubt after everything she had been through. Rabastan was the embodiment of everything she fought against. She was disgusted that for the past 4 days he had been free from Azkaban, being treated with kindness and respect by the Healers and Minister. He hadn't changed from the man she had feared during the war. He deserved nothing.

"Well, that didn't end too well," Prue said, walking in. "Really disproves the curse theory, doesn't it?"

"It certainly does," Hermione agreed. "So that's one Death Eater that _clearly_ wasn't cursed, yet Draco Malfoy's testimony suggests otherwise." She frowned, tapping her fingers on her notebook. "Should we get a pureblood to interview him? Just to make sure?" she suggested, hating herself for even thinking it, let alone saying it. "His arrogance and racism could be a product of his upbringing. Even Andromeda Tonks used to believe in supremacy before she broadened her horizons."

Prue laughed. "He just threatened to kill you and now you want to give him one more chance? You're a strange one, Hermione Granger."

"I just want to make sure we can prove or disprove this theory with thorough investigation," she said, a faint blush on her cheeks. She knew her work ethic was stronger than most. But even still, she felt that there were constantly two sides within herself warring; the one that wanted to believe that even the darkest of souls have a spark of light within, and the other logical and impatient side, complete with lists, images and dot points as to why Rabastan should be sent back to that island and have the key thrown away.

"Talk to Shacklebolt about it, I don't want you in the same room as that Death Eater again," Prue said, shooting a glare at the screen showing video from Rabastan's room. He was sitting on his bed, smirking. "We can put our attention to Bellatrix now."

"She looks looks like she's nowhere _near_ ready for my questions," Hermione said, looking out the window at the still-pacing woman.

"Correct," Prue said, waving her hand at the monitors so that all screens displayed Bellatrix's room. "I need to make sure as to what her mental state is. Her reactions were erratic earlier, it gave me plenty of reason to be concerned."

"Narcissa wants to see her," Hermione said. "Bellatrix might be easier to control or...understand, with her sister present."

The Healer considered this for a moment as she walked over to the observation window to look at the woman. After a while, she sighed. "I'll try asking by myself first," she said. "But if Bellatrix is too scared, like she was earlier, Narcissa might be a good idea. Tell you what, Miss Granger-" she turned to face Hermione, "-you go home for the day. I'll try to get Mrs. Lestrange settled in and you can come back tomorrow. I can't guarantee she'll be ready for your questions, but it'd be good for you to see her progress."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I hope she proves to be more receptive than her brother-in-law," Hermione said with the faint hint of a laugh. She was not unaware of the ridiculousness of the situation.

"I think she will be. She's not right in the head. There's something there, I'm positive," she said, almost as though she was thinking about loud, rather than talking to Hermione. "Off with you, now," she said, remembering the young witch was still there, "and don't think too much on what Rabastan said to you. The war is over, regardless of his beliefs."

"I'll try my best. I'll see you tomorrow, Prue," Hermione said, turning to the fire. "9 o'clock?"

"9 o'clock," the Healer confirmed as Hermione stepped into the flames.

* * *

A/N: Finally, our beloved Bella makes an appearance! More of her in the next chapter, I promise. Let me know what you think so far! x


	5. Chapter 5

With a faint _crack_ , Hermione appeared just outside the Weasley property just before sunset. The ramshackle old house was the same as ever; tall and rickety, completely mismatched, and so lopsided to the point it simply _had_ to have been held up by magic. In the fading light, she could just make out bright purple smoke wafting from one of the chimney's. She couldn't help but smile as she walked; next to Hogwarts, this was her second favourite place to be – even the war hadn't dimmed the love and homeliness it exuded. Considering she had spent the afternoon with a very uncooperative Death Eater, she couldn't imagine any other place she'd rather be right now.

She smoothed over her purple summer dress as she hurried down the dirt driveway, unconsciously looking over her shoulder every now and again. Old habits die hard. Amidst the sounds of rustling grass, gnomes chattering and farm animals making noises, a loud, slightly growl-like 'meow' caught her attention. Crookshanks, her bandy legged ginger cat, was several feet in front, looking up at his owner with his huge yellow eyes. "Crooks," she breathed, rushing down to him, running her fingers through his fur. He rubbed his cheek on her knee, purring, and leaving tufts of ginger hair on her dress. "I'm taking you to your new home tonight," she told him. "I'm sorry for leaving you for a week."

As if understanding what she was saying, he looked up at her and narrowed his eyes. "Oh, come on, I know Ginny has been giving you fishy treats everyday. Don't look at me like that," she said, almost laughing at the expression. Several chin scratches later, Hermione was allowed to leave without him weaving between her legs and trying to trip her. He followed her up to the front door, before disappearing into the garden, clearly having more important things to do. _Cats_ , Hermione thought with a shake of her head.

Before she had even raised her hand to the weather-beaten front door, it was opened.

"Hermione!" Ginny said, hugging her friend instantly over the threshold. "Thought I saw someone walking down. Come in, George and just got the prototype for the most _amazing_ product, you have to see-" Ginny lead her through the cramped dining room by the hand, oblivious to the fact her friend was stumbling over the chairs. Luckily, Hermione was granted a brief reprieve by a tight hug from Molly, who was busy making dinner.

"Good to see you, dear," she said warmly, cupping Hermione's cheek. "How are-?" Her question was cut off by a screech from the stove top. "We'll talk later," Molly promised, before before running back to the kitchen – one of the pans had started whistling the tune of Humpty Dumpty, and another was yelling at it to shut up. Hermione looked on in fond amusement; it may be all rather bizarre, but, she figured, she was at The Burrow.

With Molly tending to the pans, Ginny hurried her through to the living room, where Harry, Ron, Percy, Audrey, Bill, a very pregnant Fleur, and George were huddled around the coffee table; the latter mid-way through an explanation for, what looked like, a simple baby onesie.

George looked up, grinning at seeing the new arrival. "And here's the Ministry's newest super-secret Death Eating investigator," he said loudly, interrupting his own product over-view and bounding over to give Hermione a tight hug. "Is it nice being around your friendly neighbourhood blood traitor's again?" he asked, gesturing around the room.

While he meant it as a joke, Hermione could see there was worry laced in the words, and she felt all the eyes in the room focusing on her. "Oh, you have _no idea_ ," Hermione laughed, remembering all Rabastan had said. "I've had a rather interesting day, shall we say." She knew that she wasn't able to say much more, especially considering Percy, Audrey and Fleur hadn't been at the Order meeting.

Before she knew it was swamped with hugs from everyone; even Audrey and Percy, who were usually quite formal. Hermione carefully embraced Fleur, before placing her hand on her belly briefly. "How much longer to go now?" she asked, trying to remember what date it was.

"The start of next month, 'opefully!" she said, absolutely glowing. "Victoire is so excited. She cannot _wait_ for 'er baby sister."

"And her first gift from her newly appoint God-Father," George said proudly, Firewhiskey in hand, "shall be the latest Weasley Wizard Wheezes baby-wear. We have a new collection." His vocal tone had changed to his showman voice, making Hermione laugh. "If we can resume, dear family...?"

"Come and look, Hermione, it's a brilliant bit of magic," Ron said from the couch. After accepting a glass of Butterbeer from Arthur, she quickly conjured a small stool to the side of the coffee table to get a better look at, what she had to admit, was a very basic piece of clothing. As she leant in closer, however, she could see a faint hint of magic woven in the thread but unable to identify it's qualities.

"What does it do?" she asked, rubbing the sleeve between her fingers. Her eyebrow raised slightly as a few theories materialised in her mind.

After taking another sip of alcohol, George began to explain. "Well, after listening from one-too-many complaints from dear Bilius here, about how he was unable to understand little Victoire's cries as well as Fleur, I had the idea of making a baby deciphering product line. Thus, _Wittle Weasley Weasels_ began. This is just the tester product," he said, holding up the onesie for all to see. "It changes a baby's hair colour depending on the mood – a nod to one Teddy Lupin, I might add."

Hermione was amazed. She finally recognised the material the suit was made from; one of the more complicated bit of magical tailoring that even Madam Malkin hadn't achieved flawlessly. "You found _Motus Sutura_ thread?" she asked, almost in awe, reaching out to touch the fabric.

George laughed. "Of course you figured it out," he said. "One better, though, Hermione – I made it myself."

At this, Hermione's eyes ballooned, and her jaw fell open. She knew she looked like a goldfish, but she didn't care. The _Motus Sutura_ method was rumoured to have died out last century in Italy, the last original tailor taking the official secret to his grave. No one has been able to replicate his method perfectly, but George's was the closest she'd seen. "You really are _brilliant_ , George," she said faintly. "This magic is just...wow. So the thread deciphers the cries and changes the hair colour so parents know what their baby needs?"

"Exactly," he said. "And now current and future Weasley babies wont be too jealous of cool cousin Teddy."

"It's bloody brilliant," Ron said. "And we have ideas for more products using the same thread. But that's even more top-secret than _your_ job." He grinned at her, eyes twinkling.

Hermione sniggered, clearly having been put in her place. "So you've tried it on babies?"

"My daughter has been quite useful," Bill said, cradling Victoire in his arms. "Fleur nearly had a heart attack when Vic's hair turned blue the first time."

At this, Fleur crinkled her perfect nose at him "Because _someone_ neglected to mention zee fact Victoire was _wearing_ zee onesie," she pointed out, playing with her daughters silvery hair.

Bill was about to reply, but Molly's voice called loudly from the kitchen. "Will someone set the table, please?!"

The evening passed with triple helpings of Molly's excellent cooking, far too many bottles of Madam Rosmerta's finest Elf-Made mead and more laughter than Hermione had heard in a long time. After Andromeda and her grandson arrived mid-way through the meal, Teddy had been passed from lap to lap, telling anyone who would listen about his dinosaur toys, while Luna, another late arrival, had bought new pictures of potential sightings of a Crumple Horned Snorkack in Finland.

After briefly chatting with Percy about his stance on the investigation – Kingsley, as it turns out, had only asked him earlier that day to be involved as one of the interviewers for the future questionings of the Malfoy family, Hermione finally managed to sit down with Andromeda, who'd been trying to catch her eye all evening. The older witch immediately reached for the younger's hand. "Have you seen her?" she asked quickly, keeping her voice low.

Hermione smiled reassuringly. "I have. She woke up while I was there."

"And?"

"And..." Hermione began, "honestly, she was a lot different to what we were expecting." Her mind flashed to the image of the confused and scared woman she had witnessed earlier. "She seemed relieved Voldemort was dead, which gives me hope, anyway, that there might be a chance for her. How did the rest of the meeting go this morning?"

Andromeda took a moment to respond; Hermione gave her time to mull over her thoughts about her older sister. "The meeting?" she eventually said. "Ended pretty quickly. But Cissa and I spoke."

At this, Hermione's lips twitched into a small smile, urging her friend to go on.

"It was...surreal, I guess you could say. When we hugged, it was as if it were the most natural thing in the world," She gazed into the fire for a moment, eyes misted over. She absent-mindedly played with one of her brown curls, before taking a sip of mead. "We're having lunch on Sunday. With Draco and Teddy, as well."

"Andy, that's wonderful!" Hermione breathed, grasping her friend's hands.

Molly, who had been busy tending to the fire, bustled over having heard the last part of the conversation. "That's fantastic, dear," she said to Andrromeda, taking a seat opposite the two witches. "Do let them know they're welcome here."

Yet again, Hermione couldn't help but be amazed by Molly Weasley's willingness to forgive and forge friendships with the people once intent on harming her and her family. She truly was the driving force behind the Order, at times. Hermione smiled fondly at the thougt of how large Burrow Dinners would be in five years if she continued on with her steadfast belief of opening her home to all.

"I heard you saw Rabastan today, Hermione," Molly said, turning her attention to the younger witch. "How did that go?

Hermione had been dreading the question. So far, no one had brought it up directly; she had a hunch the Weasley matriarch had told her kids to not ask about it, knowing how sensitive the issue was. "Well, Rabastan's hopefully going back to Azkaban tomorrow," she said darkly. "He wasn't even interested in a lighter sentence. He kept on and on about how _proud_ he was of everything he'd done. Teamed with the usual blood insults, as well. I admit, I lost my temper at him," she added, with a wry smile, remembering how _good_ it felt to finally snap. "But he's definitely not cursed."

"I wish I could say that surprises me, but..." Molly trailed off, shaking her head. "Are you ok?"

"I'm fine, don't worry about me," Hermione assured her.

Molly smiled, and patted her hand affectionately. "And Bellatrix?"

"She's awake now. I didn't talk to her, but I saw her," she replied. "The Healers think that there's definitely something going on in that head of hers. She was the complete opposite of Rabastan."

Andromeda smiled sadly. "I hope they can find out what it is," she sighed. "But with Rabastan being the same as before, it puts the curse theory up for debate, doesn't it?"

"Two votes in proof of the curse, one vote in proof of free will," Molly mused, taking a sip of her coffee. "Very messy."

Hermione couldn't agree more. She hoped the Department of Mysteries were having slightly better luck than her in trying to find out of the truth. The thought had crossed her mind of defecting from the St Mungo's team to join the Unspeakables. Less chances of being assaulted by a crazed Azkaban inmate there, she had reasoned. But she knew she had to see Bellatrix. After learning about her history, she almost felt like she knew the woman. Or, rather, the teenage version of her, anyway. She seemed a lot nicer than the Bellatrix she had met during the war.

Soon enough, people started saying their goodbye's; Bill, Fleur and a sleeping Victoire had made their way to the fire, while George had disapparated around the same time as Percy and Audrey. Audrey, Hermione realised quite happily, was definitely feeling more at home with the Weasley's these days. She had heard Ginny trying to convince the brunette witch to come out with her and Luna the next time they head to their favourite wizarding bar near Diagon Alley. Hermione had been roped into joining as well, work permitting. After talking more over the curse, Andromeda bade them all a 'Good Night' had Flooed home as well, a very sleepy Teddy on her hip.

With the clock chiming 10pm, Hermione knew she had to get going if she wanted to get some sleep before going back to the hospital in the morning. After thanking Molly for a wonderful evening, she and Ginny had set out to the garden to lure Crookshanks out with his favourite fishy treats. Sure enough, he trotted up to them, wolfing down treat. Once he was finished, Hermione placed him in his carry crate, telling him to stay put because they were going _home_. She gave quick goodbye hugs to the remaining Weasley's and Harry, before picking up her pet and disapparating.

As soon as he was free to roam the apartment, Crookshanks stopped his yowling. He sniffed every box and piece of furniture as Hermione prepared his food and water bowl near the kitchen. "Welcome home, Crooks," she whispered to him, scratching his ears as she passed him on the couch. Oh, how she was looking forwards to sleep. For the first time in a while, she was actually tired.

* * *

It was lunch time. Hermione had already been at St Mungo's for four hours, yet she hadn't left Prue's office. To her dismay, she found Rabastan still in the ward, however shackles had been added to his wrists and ankles. After Prue's report, Kingsley had decided to interview the Death Eater himself, yet despite his pureblood status, he had achieved about the same as Hermione had. She had watched the scene through the monitors, and the subtitles engrossed her completely. Rabastan Lestrange was like a closed book. Fanatically loyal to his Lord, until the very end.

After Hermione had finished her sandwiches, Kingsley, Prue and Uritch came back into the office, Kingsley looking darkly at at the floor. "No choice," he muttered, drawing out his wand and conjuring a piece of parchment and quill. "He's going back to Azkaban," he announced, making a beeline for Prue's desk to fill in the transfer form.

"You watched?" Prue asked Hermione, who had been sitting on one of the couches, notes spread around her messily.

Hermione nodded. "I don't get it," she sighed, exasperated. "I've re-read all of Draco's statements he made to Kingsley yesterday and in theory, Rabastan _should also have_ the same remorse, pain and foggy memory. Could-" she paused, trying to find a more logical explanation. "Could the different scar colouring just be because of a genetic flaw? Draco and Bellatrix could suffer from hypertrophic scarring – they are nephew and Aunt, after all – and Rabastan and Lucius simply have normal skin?" She knew she was grasping at straws, but she simply had to try and make logical sense of the situation. She became frustrated when two pieces of evidence were polar opposites.

"That sound be something to think about," Prue said, sitting down next to Hermione. She looked at her curiously. "You know, sometimes we forget to consider muggle conditions, we generally assume magic to be the cause of injuries here."

"It's not necessarily _muggle_ , we're all human, at the end of the day," Hermione said, picking up the images of Draco and Bellatrix's scars. "But normally, these would be healed by now, they start fading after two years. Considering magical DNA though, I'd imagine it would be healed within a year if you're a witch or wizard..." She lost herself in her thoughts, trying to think of _any_ underlying health condition that could cause this. Prue's confession of not testing for 'muggle' ailments had given her something to ponder over. Sometimes, she thought, the magical community as a whole had blinkers over their eyes when it came to their existence. They were oblivious to the world around them.

Hermione picked up Bellatrix's Azkaban file, flicking through to the medical section. She quickly scanned it, having remembered she'd read something about injuries earlier in the morning. "Aha," she breathed, finding the passage.

 _Possible arm fracture. Prisoner is violent, towards herself and others. Segregation recommended, possibly chained permanently as to prevent her hitting the wall. Fracture suspected to be self-inflicted._

If Bellatrix had self-harmed in the past, Hermione thought, she might, _just might_ , have scarring left over. Especially if it was in Azkaban, because the witch wouldn't have had access to healing potions, and Hermione thought Bellatrix wouldn't have been one to request a medic for cuts and scratches. "Prue?" she said, turning to the woman beside her. "Any chance I'd be able to take a look at Mrs. Lestrange? I don't need to ask questions, I just want to see what injuries she has and how they're healing."

Prue considered this, waving her hand at the monitors to bring up the feed from Bellatrix's room. The witch was sitting on her bed, legs drawn up under her chin, not moving except for the odd neck twitch. "I think we could. She hasn't lashed out at anyone since she first woke up..." The med-witch headed over to Kingsley to ask his opinion, leaving Hermione alone to write down a few more notes, as well as a few new questions to ask Draco.

"Hermione?" Prue called from the other side of the room. "I think I'll, um... _ask_ Bellatrix first. I don't want to spring anything on her."

"That's fine," Hermione said. She understood the precaution. Prue had spent a few hours with Bellatrix earlier, and it seemed the woman was a shell of what she once was; very jumpy, scared, and hesitant of human contact. Despite her scars, Hermione found that the more she surveyed this new Bellatrix, the less the woman scared her. Even Auror Davis had commented that it was a completely different person to the one who he had encountered in his career previously.

She looked up to the screens to see Prue entering Bellatrix's room. The witch scurried up her bed, trying to keep her distance from her Healer, but after a minute, she relaxed; tense shoulders falling and she brushed her curls from her eyes, letting her face show. A small nod her her head made Hermione smile. She had no idea if Bellatrix could remember her, but given the witch had stared at her whenever she was outside the office made her feel as though there might be some recognition hidden there.

A second later, Prue came back. "Do you want Davis in the room, Hermione?" she asked.

Hermione shook her head. "I don't want to spook her. If you're there, I think we'll be fine."

 _Are you insane?_ a part of her brain was demanding as she took her first steps into Bellatrix's room. She pushed through her fear, trying to keep any dark looks off her face, despite her arm beginning to ache slightly. The last thing she wanted was Bellatrix to feel unsafe, given her personality change.

Bellatrix was sitting on the side of her bed, white hospital dress almost blending in perfectly with her pale skin. She had rolled both sleeves up already, and Hermione couldn't help but wince at all the bruises and scratches she had. Even her fingernails were bitten down to the nail beds, and most of her knuckles had split. She looked over her shoulder to make sure Prue was still behind her, before she gathered up the courage to talk to the frail woman before her. "Hello," Hermione said kindly, almost as if talking to a child. "I just need to take a look at your arms, Mrs. Lestrange, is that ok?"

Bellatrix looked at her, an unreadable expression on her face. Her black eyes had a far-away look about them, as if she wasn't all there. Wordlessly, she offered both arms out to Hermione, before looking down at her knees, letting her curls hide her face.

Hermione reached out, hands shaking. She tried to keep calm on the outside, but inside, her mind was replaying her torture over and over again. She tried had to ignore it, instead focusing on the array of superficial scratches Bellatrix had. Some were healed, some were in the process, and some were very fresh from a few days ago. She actually smiled when she realised there were no brand new ones from the duration of her St. Mungo's stay. She couldn't imagine how many problems a decade and a half of constant Dementor presence had caused. _She deserved it_ , that little voice in her head reminded her.

She shook her head slightly, trying to rid her mind of those intrusive thoughts. She spent several more minutes looking over Bellatrix's thin arms, trying not to hold them too hard for fear of hurting her. Her skin was so thin Hermione suspected it could bruise with little effort. The Dark Mark scar looked different up-close rather than through a photograph. It was slightly raised, and the tiny capillaries around it looked almost inflames underneath her skin. "Does this scar hurt at all, Mrs. Lestrange?" Hermione asked, pointing to where the Dark Mark used to be. She cursed herself as she immediately remembered she wasn't meant to ask questions, but Bellatrix had been calm so far, and after a few seconds, Prue still had not intervened.

Bellatrix however, remained silent, although she gave a small nod of her head. Slowly, she looked up, glazed eyes looking straight into Hermione's. "It's not that bad, though," she said in a quiet voice.

She had yet to hear Bellatrix speak, and she was shocked at how soft her vocal tone was. In the war, she was a shrieking lunatic, flitting from accent to accent depending on how angry she was and who she was cursing. Hermione gave the witch a small smile. "If it gets too bad, you can ask your Healer for a potion," she said gently. "I'll let you get some more rest now, Mrs. Lestrange. Thank you for letting me look at your injuries."

She nodded her head, pulling the white sleeves back down her arms and bringing her knees up under her chin again. As she left, Hermione breathed a long sigh of relief. She hadn't been that tense in a very long time. Prue patted her on the back when the got back to the office. "Considering you... _history_ , her reaction to seeing you was...I don't know."

"I'm just grateful I wasn't called a Mudblood, really," Hermione laughed. "She's different, there's something not right. And her scar was worse in real life than it was in the photos, too. Although," she turned back to Prue, "disregard my Muggle theory, none of her other scars resemble hyperthrophic scarring. It's definitely Mark-related."

"At least we know there's no underlying condition," Kingsley said, from the chair behind the desk. "Good idea to check, though, Hermione. _This_ is why I wanted you on the team." He tapped placed a hand on her shoulder, a hint of a proud smile across his dark lips. "You all good?"

"Yes," Hermione said truthfully. "I just can't tell if she remembers me and is ignoring our past, of if she genuinely doesn't know who I am."

Kingsley nodded, considering Hermione's words. "There's a lot of possibilities. Her _lack of_ reaction is just as concerning as if she'd shown violence."

"If not more so," Uritch said, looking up from his files. "Minister, I want to do more evaluations before we question her about the curse. Maybe if you and Hermione return on Monday?" He looked to Prue, who nodded in agreement.

"That would be my request too, Kingsley," the med-witch said. "I need a day to focus on her medical needs; she needs more fluids, an iron transfusion, proper healing on some of her bruises..."

While Prue and Kingsley started drawing up a detailed care plan, Hermione finally sat down and relaxed for a moment. She was quietly relieved she could have a day off – her furniture was due to arrive tomorrow and then she'd have no more excuses to procrastinate over unpacking. She was also absolutely grateful that Prue wanted to get Bellatrix physically stronger. She had a feeling she wouldn't be able to rush the Death Eater into answering too many things in one go. The war-Bellatrix, she had no sympathy for, but the broken woman in the glass room 12 steps away made her believe that this curse rumour might be true. The fact that there was still _so much_ they didn't know about it rejuvenated her resolve to continue this investigation.

As soon as she had flooed home once finalising her notes from the day with Kingsley, she headed straight for her kitchen to find that bottle of wine Draco had left. Luckily, it was still half-full. She poured a generous glass, gave Crookshanks a pat (he had been napping in the fruit bowl, yet was happy to wake up now his human was home) and after kicking off her heels, sunk into her soft couch. Her emotions of the day had drained her and now, for once, she was too tired to pay attention to the warring sides of sympathy and cold hard realism in her mind. Instead, she had wine, her cat, and the new issue of _Transfiguration Today._

* * *

A/n: _Motus Sutura_ are the Latin words for 'emotion' and 'sewing' (well, according to google, they are!). Also, a reviewer asked about how old Hermione is in this – she's 21, and it's set in the year 2001. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! More soon. x


	6. Chapter 6

After a week of being in a rather bare flat, Hermione's home finally looked as though someone _lived_ there. She had honestly tried to stick to her roots and do everything the muggle way; dragging furniture across the floor, single-handedly placing each and every book on the numerous shelves she now owned, she had given up after barely 45 minutes. With a few simple flicks of her wand, all of the boxes were unpacked and their contents zooming into their new homes, and _wingardium leviosa_ really made moving furniture effortless. Crookshanks had already left paw prints over the new dining table, and her new duvet was riddled with his fur. Hermione didn't mind in the slightest. Crookshanks had been her constant companion for yeas now, and had gone above and beyond after the war. He headbutted her when he sensed her moods were low, he brought her dead moths whenever she had gotten back to her dormitory after her counselling sessions, and in her insomnia-riddled final year at Hogwarts, he never left her side when he knew she was unable to sleep. She was just glad he liked his new home.

She had just finished making herself a cup of tea when she heard a _tapping_ sound at her window. Her eyebrows raised as she saw it was Minerva's owl, and quickly let the bird in. It showed it's foot to Hermione, and while she was untying the letter, the owl quite happily helped himself to some of her tea.

 _Dear Hermione,_

 _Kingsley has given me a promotion of-sorts for this investigation. I was simply enquiring if you would have time to get me up to speed with your research? I'm in London today – free from 3pm, happy to travel to your new place any time after that. Send time and address back with Ludwig._

 _Talk soon,_

 _Minerva_

Hermione quickly replied with her address and sent Ludwig on his way. She glanced at the clock – just past midday. While she had planned to spend the rest of her day reading some of her newest purchases from Obscurus Books in Diagon Alley, she wasn't too upset by the change of plans. At least she'd have someone else to talk to about the overload of Black family information she had running around in her head. That was the problem with working on such a confidential investigation; she couldn't talk out her concerns with anyone, and the ever-changing mindsets of sympathy, anger and horror were making it even more difficult.

Nevertheless, she quickly organised her new desk, now that she had one. It was a welcome relief from the floor. Her overfilled notebooks were placed in the centre, surrounded by the Black Family journals Andromeda had leant her. She knew the middle Black sibling wouldn't mind Minerva poking through them, but to ease her slight unease at it, Hermione promised herself she would only show her former Professor what she needed. Some of the letters Hermione had read were extremely personal, even she had felt uncomfortable looking over them.

She knew if she didn't stop thinking, she could sit in her own head for hours. She headed back to the lounge room, picked on of her new books off her bookshelf and curled up on her couch, happy to leave reality for a few hours.

A few hours later, and with her book nearly half-way read, the doorbell sounded. Realising that it was pouring with rain outside, she jumped over to the door, opening it quickly and ushering Minerva inside. "Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Hermione," Minerva said, slipping off her trench coat; Hermione briefly marveling how well the formidable Professor McGonagall cold wear Muggle clothing. The older woman looked around the large living room, eyes naturally drawn to the bookshelves.

Hermione couldn't help but smile knowingly. "Feel free to look at the books. Tea? Coffee?"

"Coffee, please," Minerva said gratefully.

A few minutes later, both witches had a cup of coffee each and Hermione was leading Minerva to her office, listening intently as the older witch explained how much information Kingsley had given her earlier. "If I had known I was to be more involved, I'd have read those school files before I gave them to you," she added light-heartedly.

"Why did Kingsley give you the promotion, as you called it?" Hermione asked curiously.

"Prudence suggested it to him," Minerva said, taking a seat on one of the lounges. "Given Druella and Cygnus are dead, as well as the rest of the authority figures Bellatrix had in her younger days, I was the next one the Healers could think of. While Slughorn would have been preferable, Kingsley doesn't want too many outsiders involved."

Hermione could see Minerva's point. "Bellatrix seems very lost right now, someone from her past that she looked up to would probably help her a lot," she said.

"Ah, yes, Kingsley mentioned you spoke with her," Minerva said, looking at Hermione. "Are you ok? She didn't...do anything?"

"I'm fine," Hermione replied. "I don't even know if she knew who I was. She's really not well. Seeing her now, in this state, I...don't even think I'm scared of her. Is - is that bad?" she asked in a small voice. Guilt plagued her at her new feelings towards the Death Eater. It had been churning in her stomach for the past day and seemed to only be getting worse.

Sensing the girls discomfort, Minerva reached over for her hand. "It's _fine_ ," Minerva implored. "You've accepted the war, you've forgiven all who needed forgiveness, and more. Now, Bellatrix Lestrange is your _patient_. And from Prudence's notes today, I've learned she's a broken woman with a mind in shambles who seems to be fairly harmless now. The fact you feel this way is _proof_ as to why you were given this job. Kingsley made the perfect choice. Not many people on this earth could be in a room with her without running out in terror."

Hermione let Minerva's words roll over in her mind. The older woman always knew what to say, a trait she was admired for. Yet again, Hermione was very grateful she was now working with someone she trusted. "I suppose," she said, with a smile. "This has just been so draining, and not being able to vent to anyone about it has made my emotions a little bit of a mess," she admitted, taking a sip of her coffee.

Minerva nodded in understanding. "Truthfully, Hermione, I expected as much. I know how that brilliant mind of yours works, remember that," she said, with a smile.

It was certainly true. Hermione credited Minerva with keeping her mental stability in pretty good shape for her final year of magical study, and had been there for her on her bad days when she was too ill to do anything for herself, even stopping by between her classes to administer more mind relaxants while her student rode out the worst of the demons plaguing her. Hermione had lost count of the amount of expensive bottles of scotch she had given the headmistress as 'thank you' presents.

Even though there were still so many thoughts going through her head, she was still curious as to what Minerva as going to be doing for Bellatrix.

"Well," she said, after Hermione had asked her as such, "we know that before joining Voldemort, Bellatrix was very happy at Hogwarts. Since she seems to be having nightmares and bad flashbacks, Prue and young Uritch were of the opinion that seeing an old, familiar face from happier times might be beneficial for her."

"But Narciss-?"

"-And Andy?" Minerva asked, having expected the question. "There is a risk that seeing them at this point would stir up _too_ many emotions. An old teacher is fairly neutral ground, and as far as I can remember, she and I never actually dueled together in the war so I've never actually hurt her...despite trying several times," she added. She furrowed her brow for a moment, and her lips pursed into a thin line. "I think I now know just what battles you're fighting in your own head at present, Hermione." She closed her eyes sadly, and Hermione kept the silence going. She also had learned a lot about how Minerva's mind worked, and knew at moments like these to leave her in peace. Even Minerva McGonagall was just as scarred as the rest of the wizarding people.

"Forgive me, Hermione," she said after a while, voice cracking slightly. "It's just..."

"I know," Hermione said softly. "Merlin, do I know."

After talking over all of the research accumulated so far, Hermione felt relieved that she was no longer alone with all of this and had someone on the same clearance level she knew and trusted. The conflicted emotions they both felt over Bellatrix had kept them up quite late, and in the end, Hermione insisted Minerva stay in the guest room for the mere four hours of sleep they would be able to get. Kingsley had requested both of them be at St Mungo's at 8am, rather than 9 as he had previously told Hermione. She was eager to see if Bellatrix had improved over the past day.

After Minerva had cooked them both a breakfast of eggs and toast, they both flooed to the ward from Hermione's living room, tired but prepared for whatever the day would throw at them. Hermione knew that Kingsley had wanted Minerva to actually _see_ Bellatrix before committing officially, which made complete sense to the young witch. She was glad Kingsley was taking so many precautions with this entire investigation; never pressuring anyone and not hurrying things along too quickly.

"Morning, Hermione," Uritch said brightly. "Coffee for you. And Rabastan is gone, just so you know," he added.

Hermione accepted the drink gratefully, taking a deep inhale of the delightful smell before taking a sip of the hot liquid. "Thanks," she said, feeling as though a weight had gone from her shoulders now Rabastan wasn't here. She was glad she wouldn't have to see his smirking face on the monitors anymore.

"And good morning, Professor," Uritch said, just as brightly, as a moment later Minerva stepped from the flames. "Kingsley should be here in a moment, he's just getting the new Healer to sign some paperwork."

"You've found someone else?" Hermione asked, sitting in her usual armchair.

Uritch nodded. "About time, too. Prue hasn't had more than six hours sleep at a time for the past week."

"Who is it, if I may ask?" Minerva said, taking a seat on the lounge.

Before Uritch had a change to answer, Kingsley walked in, followed by Daphne Greengrass, a Slytherin who had been in Hermione's year at Hogwarts. "Well, that answers your question, Professor," Uritch laughed.

"Hello Hermione, Professor," Daphne said, smiling. "Good to see you both."

"And you, Miss Greengrass," Minerva said.

"You too, Daphne," Hermione said, not having seen the red-headed witch since Draco's birthday party several months ago. "How-?"

Silence fell as Kingsley held up his dark hand, requesting the chatter to stop. "We had quite the eventful day here yesterday," he said. "An oversight on our part actually turned out to be for the greater good. Said greater good being - we are now, fairly certain, that Bellatrix's mind had been significantly fractured. There's magical injury there. The descriptions of fuzzy, disjointed memories she gave to Prue were very similar to Draco's. Safe to say that even though age clearly seems to not be a factor, there's definitely something funny about these red scars. Hermione-" he turned to face the bushy-haired witch, "-we've decided that we'd be happier if you spent a bit more time with Bellatrix before asking her the hard stuff," he said, almost apologetically. "She's not going to open up if she doesn't at least feel safe around you."

Hermione nodded, exhaling sharply. She was always more hesitant about Bellatrix in the morning; she knew she'd be fine in a few hours. "Ok. I can do that. What happened yesterday, if you don't mind me asking?"

"She saw Rabastan through the glass," Kingsley answered. "We forgot to draw the curtains around her bed while we moved him. She...well, she completely freaked out, but when Prue was calming her down, she started talking a bit. She cannot remember _why_ he scared her that much, just that he _did_ , but she kept on repeating 'I stopped him, though, I stopped him' over and over."

Hermione once again looked at the woman on the screens, pacing around her bed. She frowned at what Kngsley said. "He wouldn't have been violent towards her in the past, would he?" she asked, thinking back to what she had nearly suffered at the hands of the snatchers. "Tried to-?"

"-No," Minerva said darkly, clearly having anticipated how that sentence was going to end. "Even Rabastan Lestrange would be smart enough to not hurt someone Lord Voldemort held in such high regard."

"Death Eater testimonies would agree with that," Kingsley said fairly. "In the early days, anyway, Voldemort would have tortured or killed anyone who would dare lay a finger on her. If you wounded her in battle, you'd beg for death. She was his prized possession. You saw how he reacted when he thought Molly killed her."

 _There was that word again_ , Hermione thought. _Possession_. That's how she had been described by quite a few. A prized possession of the Black family, then essentially sold off to be one for Rodolphus, which lead to her being Voldemort's. She was a beautiful woman, an extremely powerful witch, yet she was just a prize or bargaining chip to those closest to her. Hermione felt that she deserved a bit more respect than that. There was a reason she had, at one point, been the most feared woman in Britain.

A flash of green flames from the fire brought Hermione out of her thoughts. Prue had arrived, looking quite well-rested for a change. "Morning, all, Minister, Professor" she said, flicking her wand at the coffee maker. "Settling in, Daphne?"

"Yes, thank you," the younger woman replied. It was only now Hermione noticed a small resemblance between them; the same smile being the most obvious. Given they were both purebloods, it came to no surprise to her that there could be a familial connection.

"And how's Bellatrix today?" Prue asked no one in particular as she busied herself with her coffee.

"Quiet and stable," Uritch said. "Woke up a few times in the night, though."

Prue sighed. "Probably just edgy from seeing Mr. Lestrange," she said. "Hermione, have you heard my idea on meeting with her?"

At this, Hermione looked away from the screen. She scolded herself for continually staring at the witch, but she couldn't help it. She was so curious about what the woman was like now. "Yes, I've been told," she said. "Happy to start whenever you're ready."

"Excellent," Prue said, before taking a long sip of her coffee. _This entire office seems to run on the beverage_ , Hermione thought, glancing at her own mug. "I'll clock in and we can see her. No set questions or anything. Just go with what feels natural."

"And if she asks about why she's here?" Hermione asked hesitantly. Even with a muddled mind, Hermione knew Bellatrix was intelligent. She'd be curious.

Prue considered for a moment, taking a seat in her office chair. She sighed, clearly struggling with her decision, before saying, "Like I said, go with what feels natural. You'll be able to tell if she starts getting distressed."

With that, Prue started briefly on her paperwork, and Hermione stared at the floor, wondering what on earth she could talk to Bellatrix about. The woman had been in prison for so long she probably knew little of the current world; part of her was hoping the Death Eater could lead the conversation, but she knew that was unlikely. The one thing she found she had in common with Bellatrix was their love of magical education. Bellatrix had been in the top of most of her Hogwarts classes. She smiled faintly as she decided that that might just be the way to go. She reminded herself to not speak of the castle itself, given what Bellatrix had done to it – _and in it_ , she thought, as her mind flicked to Tonks. She was wary of triggering confusing memories for the witch, especially after how she reacted to her brother-in-law yesterday.

While she had been lost in her thoughts, Kingsley and Minerva had started talking quietly, while Daphne and Uritch were both reading an article from the same book. Hermione swallowed hard. It was the moments alone in her head that she hated most. To her relief, Prue stood up barely a moment later and beckoned for her to follow. As they walked out, she caught Minerva giving her an encouraging smile, which certainly did the trick. "Morning, Davis," Hermione said as the Auror joined them by Bellatrix's door.

"Morning, Ma'am," he said. "Remember, I'll be right out here if..."

Hermione smiled at him. "Thanks," she said, as they stepped into the room.

Bellatrix, who had been watching them curiously through the glass door, looked quite surprised, almost shocked, to see Hermione. While Prue hovered by the door, Hermione stepped forwards, and she felt Bellatrix's dark eyes travel from her face, to her neck, then to her arm. Immediately, the dark haired woman took a step back. She frowned, faint patches of colour forming on her pale cheeks.

"Hello," Hermione said softly, walking very slowly towards her. She could see that something had changed about the Death Eater, but by the looks crossing the woman's face, she could tell it was internal and emotional rather than something violent. "How are you today, Mrs. Lestrange?"

Bellatrix looked around the room, before her dark eyes pierced into Hermione's. "I..." she started, frown increasing and she kept on blinking hard, as if to rid herself of images. She shook her head quickly, before looking back up. "I remember...what I did-" she started backing away again, and Hermione instinctively reached out to grab her by the arm so she wouldn't stumble into any of the medical equipment.

"Bellatrix, sssh," she breathed quickly, helping her walk forwards on timid feet. "Let's sit down, ok?"

Bellatrix flinched at the touch. "You shouldn't be here," she muttered, shaking her head desperately. "And you _really_ shouldn't be helping me."

"Hermione?" Prue's sharp voice sounded from the door.

"It's fine, Prue," Hermione said, waving off the concern. "Bellatrix, Look at me." Black eyes slowly met Hermione's brown ones. She knew her patient wanted to look away, but Hermione held her gaze. "I'm here to help you. Swore an oath, signed a contract. I'm not going anywhere."

"But-" Bellatrix started, her thin fingers snaking around Hermione's left arm, feeling for the scars of her handiwork.

"Bella, just trust me," Hermione breathed, unable to stop the words from falling from her lips. She was terrified the use of the nickname would be a trigger, but instead, Bellatrix just looked away sadly. She sunk down to the floor, tears falling. Hermione heard Prue start to move, but her instincts told her that Bellatrix wouldn't handle another person close right now. She looked over her shoulder at the med-witch and shook her head quickly. "It's ok," she mouthed, before joining Bellatrix on the ground. "Please don't cry," she whispered to the small woman in front of her. "Think of something that makes you happy, ok? Please?"

Slowly, Bellatrix looked up and wiped her tears. She furrowed her brow at the young witch, body language still quite defensive. She was hunched over, and had drawn her knees up under her chin, like she usually did when she was stressed of confused. Suddenly, a brief smile flickered across her dry lips.

"There we go," Hermione grinned, reaching out and briefly touching the woman's hands in front of her legs. "What were you thinking?"

"Home," Bellatrix said simply. "The view..."

"At Black Manor?" Hermione asked, keeping a small smile on her face.

Bellatrix nodded. For the first time, Hermione saw the worry lines soften around her hooded eyes and forehead.

"It is a beautiful lake you had on your land," Hermione commented, hoping to keep the older witch talking a bit longer.

As always, a flurry of emotions crossed over Bellatrix's face. She twitched slightly, Hermione guessed at memories and mental wiring played a huge part in what her mind could see. It looked almost painful. "You've...seen it?" she eventually asked, voice slightly muffled from resting her chin on her knees.

Hermione nodded. "I was shown a picture," she explained.

Bellatrix shut her eyes, frowning, as pain flashed across her face. She let out a mangled grunt before hitting her head back against the bedside table she was sitting in front of. She clawed at her hair, looking around feverishly as her breathing quickened. She held up her hand as she saw Prue hurrying towards her. "I'm fine," she panted, before burying her head against her knees.

Hermione shot a worried glance at Prue, who had stopped in her tracks, frozen to the spot. "Hermione, you can leave-"

"No," Hermione said quickly, before turning back to Bellatrix, running her hand along the witch's arm gently. "Bellatrix?" she asked quietly, inching closer. "Bellatrix, what happened? You sounded like you were in pain. Please, let me help you." _Sorry, Neville_ , she thought to herself, guilt stabbing at her relentlessly. Here she was, almost hugging a cowering Bellatrix Lestrange. Her stomach churned, but she tried to re-focus on the woman before her.

Bellatrix took in a shaky breath. "When-whenever I think of..." she trailed off, but to Hermione's relief, raised her head. "People like you or...or Andy or... it's like ... It hurts. Part of me is screaming..."

Hermione refused to let Bellatrix look back down. Cautiously, she brought her fingers to the woman's chin and lifted it up, staring into her dark eyes. "Bella, you have no idea how much help you just provided us with," she smiled, brushing away one of Bellatrix's tears. "And I'm sorry I'm a cause of that pain," she added quietly.

At this, Bellatrix almost laughed. "I..." she closed her eyes again, and now Hermione had a small idea of what was happening when she did that. "I think you have every right to cause it." For the first time, Hermione saw a flash of a cheeky grin she had only ever seen in Andromeda's photos. Her spirit soared at how much progress they had made today. She couldn't help but grin. Without warning, Bellatrix grabbed Hermione's left arm, staring at the scars she had left. She looked almost pained by them.

"Bellatrix, if it's hurting you to see, please don't look," Hermione whispered, carefully withdrawing her arm. "And if you try to apologise, I'm absolutely terrified of what the pain in your head could do to you."

Bellatrix nodded, closing her eyes yet again. "I'm... I'm trying-"

"Don't," Hermione said, cupping her cheek. "Let's bring that smile back, shall we? I know you had a cat called Cecil when you were 7. Do you remember him?"

A giggle escaped from her. "I remember," Bellatrix said, almost child-like. "He used to chase his tail. We used to think he was more of a dog, to be honest. Followed us everywhere. Knocked Cissa into the pond once..."

Hermione nodded approvingly. She was going to ask for more details, but a thought struck her. She bit her lip, a habit she had had since school whenever she was struggling to contain ideas. In the end, curiosity for the better of her. "Bellatrix, just keep thinking about Cecil, ok, I just want to take a look at your arm." The witch nodded, holding out her left arm. Hermione gently pushed up the sleeve, running her fingers along the red scar she was desperate to understand. The veins around it were darkened, as they had been before, but the discolouration seemed to have gotten longer, perhaps by a millimetre or so. "Bella, can I cast a quick charm on your arm? I just want to see something. Prue-?" she turned to the med-witch, who had gone back to the door. "I have a hunch, you might want to see this."

"Do...whatever," Bellatrix said, looking away pointedly.

Once Prue had walked over and crouched beside them, Hermione withdrew her wand. " _Revelio_ ," she murmured, tapping the scar. While there were more complex charms she could havde used, she had dcided to start with the simplest. To her surprise, however, the effect was immediate. All the veins that ran by where the Mark had been all turned black underneath the skin, snaking up her arm. Hermione had expected it to continue throughout Bellatrix's entire body, and was surprised to see it stopped just above her elbow.

"What...?" Prue muttered, taking out a magnifying glass.

Confusion covered both of their faces as silence fell. "The magic's dying," Hermione said softly. "We need to tell Kingsley. The Unspeakables need to see this." She turned Bellatrix's arm over, looking at all the small criss-crossing veins that were infected with the magic. "Minerva should see it, too," she added, turning to Prue. "She probably has ideas."

Prue nodded. "Mrs. Lestrange, would it be ok if we get someone else in to look at your arm?"

Bellatrix nodded, looking frightened. "What's going on?" she asked once Prue was out of ear-shot. "Is this-" she gestured at the markings, "-is this bad?"

Hermione sighed, and shook her head. "It did very bad things to you. But we are trying to get rid of it, Mrs-"

"-Bella."

"Bella," Hermione smiled, "We're trying to get rid of it. Why don't we get off the floor so we can have Professor McGonagall look at your arm, ok?" She helped Bellatrix up, and she made a mental note to tell Prue to get some small exercises for Bella to do to increase her muscle strength. Despite her horror at what this curse did, she was so thrilled that this was at least the beginning of proof. "Do you remember her, Bellatrix? Professor McGonagall? From school?"

Bellatrix nodded. "I'm glad she lived-" she started to say, before cutting herself off by shrieking, clawing at her skull, face contorted into a mask of pain.

Heart pounding in her chest with worry, hermione remembered she was alone. "Prue!" she called, hoping the screen was being watched back in the office. She saw sweat drip down from Bellatrix's forehead and realised she was burning up. Quickly, and since she didn't know ow far away help was, Hermione used her wand to carve our a wash-cloth sized piece of fabric from the sheets on the bed. " _Aguamenti_ ," she said, wetting it with cold water. She wrung it out and tried to pry Bellatrix's fingers from her forehead, hoping the cold material will ease the pain.

The older witch realised what Hermione was doing, holding the cloth in place herself. She was clearly still in pain, but her breathing was slowing down, much to Hermione's relief. Prue came running in, closely followed by Minerva. "Good action, Granger," Prue commended, seamlessly taking over and helping Bellatrix lie down; it seemed the Death Eater wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball. "Minerva, take a look at that arm, I don't want us to be in here longer than we have to."

To her left, Hermione felt Minerva touch her shoulder. A woman of few words in stressful situations, Minerva's eyes did all the talking for her as she stared into Hermione's brown ones; ' _Are you ok?_ '. Hermione nodded, giving a small smile before the elderly witch walked over to Bellatrix, tracing the veins much like Hermione had done. "This is Dark," she muttered after a while, thinking out loud. "Prudence - this is not going to be an easy. For you, or the Unspeakables."

"Don't I know it," Prue said briskly, arranging cool wash-cloths around Bellatrix's head. "But we have to set them free. Do you have any idea-?"

A loud tapping on the glass walls made them look up. "Minister Shacklebolt's here," Daphne said, voice muffled by the barrier.

Prue nodded. "Get some rest, Mrs. Lestrange," she told her patient, helping her swallow a sleeping draught. "You have done brilliantly."

As they turned to leave, Hermione felt Bellatrix's hand reach for hers. Hermione couldn't stop a small smile claiming her lips as she held the Death Eater's hand. She hoped this small act wasn't enough for Bellatrix to be in any extra pain. "Sleep well," she whispered, before following Prue and Minerva out, unable to stop herself from glancing over her shoulder every few steps. The more of Bellatrix's words she replayed in her mind, the more horrified at what darkness literally lay underneath the skin.

* * *

A/S: More Bella! I really hope you're enjoying this so far. Leave me a review and let me know what you think! (Must say, I'm having far too much fun including Minerva in this. Definitely thinking of giving her more page time!)

xx


	7. Chapter 7

Yet another annoyed groan escaped Hermione as she looked at her alarm clock. _4.02AM_. She'd been tossing and turning for hours, unable to sleep, her mind refusing to quieten down after spending yet another late evening pouring over notes on Bellatrix and Draco. The control the Mark still had over Bellatrix was terrifying, and after seeing how dangerously her body had reacted less than 12 hours ago at speaking of Minerva had chilled her to the core.

" _So anything nice she thinks, the curse over-rides her brain waves and causes her pain?" Minerva said, paling after Hermione repeated Bellatrix's final words before the witch had all but lost consciousness from the pain. The Headmistress sat down faintly, lost for words. "That's...truly heinous," she dead-panned, looking mildly ill. "I just couldn't see if it was the ink causing it, or if there was a curse placed on her as a_ whole _. Minister, you need the Unspeakables here..."_

In the brief few minutes she had drifted off, Hermione's mind was plagued with memories of how Voldemort had learned of Horcruxes while at school. _Could there be some clues still hidden in that big old castle? Cold this cursed Mark have been around since the very beginning?_ Hermione wondered, knowing full well there was more than just the standard Student's library in those walls. Merlin knows what other books were hidden there.

Realising that there was no way she was ever going to get proper slumber tonight, she took a hot shower, mulling over her options. She wanted to speak to Minerva, given that she was quite literally the only person she could bounce around theories with. A conversation with Albus Dumbledore, even in portrait form, was another thing she had decided was needed. If anyone would know about Tom Riddle's early days, it was him.

Decision made, once she'd dressed and charmed her hair into a sleek ponytail, she wrote a quick note to the Headmistress of Hogwarts, apologising for the early hour but requesting a meeting. She hoped Minerva was still an obscenely early riser. Barely a minute after banishing the note to the older woman, a reply materialised on her lap.

 _I'm awake, floo's open. Coffee on it's way. -M_

Thanking her lucky stars, Hermione grabbed her notes and headed over to her fire grate, stating her destination and appearing a moment later in Minerva's office. She found the older woman sitting on her desk, emerals gown tied loosely over her black nightdress and her long black hair loose; a very rare sight. "Couldn't sleep?" Minerva asked knowingly, handing over a steaming mug of coffee once Hermione had dusted soot off her clothes.

"I've had a few ideas running around my head," Hermione sighed, taking a seat on her favourite armchair by the fire, the flickering liht highlihting just how little she had slept. "I need to speak to Albus's portrait."

"What are you thinking?" Minerva prompted, taking a seat on the opposite couch, stifling a yawn.

Hermione chose her words carefully, trying had not to rush, like she always did when she was brainstorming. "Well, Voldemort learned a lot of this early tricks from the Dark Arts books here at Hogwarts. What if there's a curse, or a spell, in one of the books Albus confiscated? I know the Department of Mysteries don't know about his collection, but if we find something of use, we could scan a page and submit it as a lead...what do you think?" She chewed her bottom lip, trying hard to read her mentor's features in the soft firelight.

After taking a long sip of coffee, Minerva turned to Hermione, a small smirk on her thin lips. "And just how do _you_ know of this collection, Hermione Granger?" she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Hermione snickered. "I uh...spoke to Albus – well, his portrait – just after he died. I relieved a few of the books from it before we went on the run," she admitted, a hint of colour reaching her cheeks.

"I see," Minerva mused. "Well, I have to agree with your idea. The curses in those books...I've never seen such evil, and I've only ever flicked through three of the damn things. Come, we'll talk to the peanut gallery. Then I can show you the far more _secure_ home I've made for the books."

Hermione gave a small laugh at how the Headmistress referred to the portrait's of the previous Heads of Hogwarts. Yet again, she felt honoured to see Minerva so casually. Most people outside of the Order didn't get to see underneath the Professor façade. A flick of Minerva's wand opened the curtains of Albus's painting, startling the elderly man awake and dislodging his half-moon spectacles. "Minerva!" he greeted brightly, eyes twinkling. "And Hermione, how lovely to see you."

"And you, Albus," Hermione smiled, shielding her eyes from the early morning sunrise beaming through the window.

"We have some questions, old man," Minerva said, braiding her hair as she took a seat at her desk. "About the investigation."

At this, he sat up straighter in his chair. "Anything you need, ladies," he insisted, "I'll do my best to help."

Hermione's eyes flickered between Minerva tot he painting. "How much do you know of the theory so far?" she asked him cautiously.

"That the Mark on those who joined while Underage was laced with something similar to the Imperius curse," Dumbledore said, almost sadly. "An old rumour I myself dismissed until young Draco joined."

"Only that the age issue doesn't add up anymore," Hermione told him. "Rabastan Lestrange joined while Underage, and he's-" she shuddered at the memories threatening to overtake her, "-He's-"

"Back in Azkaban, where he belongs, clearly not cursed at all," Minerva finished for her, reaching over to hold Hermione's wrist gently. "The thing is, Albus," she continued, "this rumour has been around since the beginning. Would there by any chance he could have found a curse or magical tattoo ink in one of the old school books you've hidden?"

Dumbledore furrowed his brow. "It's certainly possible," he said slowly, gazing over his spectacles. "I'd go so far as to say you should look at the works of Gertruda Gaunt, Ignatius Prince and old Grizelda Lestrange. All terrifying curse patentor's throughout history. And Bartie's book-" he looked knowingly at Minerva, "-would probably be a big help."

While Hermione was unfamiliar with the author's Albus had listed, Minerva seemed to have grown paler over the duration of his suggestions. "What about Tregadais Nott's work?" Minerva asked curiously. "Do the Ministry have his papers on bottling Unforgivables, or did you destroy them all?"

A small flush appeared on Dumbledore's painted cheeks at her comment. "Minerva, we have a guest," he warned in a low voice. "But one copy does remain – upstairs. While it's impossible for Tom to have ever read them, they might prove useful in investigation, regardless. Now, humour an old man, Hermione – are you sure that age isn't a deciding factor in this curse? Are there other explanations?" he asked, changing the subject.

At this, Hermione and Minerva looked at each other uncertainly. "I think so," Hermione mused. "Rabastan joined while Underage, and after speaking with him-" she rolled her eyes darkly, "-he's just a Voldemort fanatic. But Bellatrix and Draco both have magical trauma. I just can't see what the two of them have in common, apart from the fact that their Marks have faded to red scars, rather than the usual grey ones. That's the only thing linking them at this point..." She trailed off, staring into space, thinking hard. She hoped the Department of Mysteries Investigators were having better luck at finding leads.

"Did Bellatrix join willingly?" Minerva asked sharply, furrowing her brows as she reached over her desk for the Death Eater's St. Mungo's file. Her frown increased as she read the charts and history, eyes darting madly across the parchment as Hermione looked at her curiously.

The younger witch thought for a moment. "We've not really figured that one out yet," she realised. "According to Andromeda and Narcissa, they believe it was all part of the marriage arrangement when she was betrothed to Rodolphus."

"Hmm," Minerva mused, pursing her lips, before shaking her head and leaning back in her chair. "To think, I used to hope to read of that woman's death every time I opened the _Prophet_ ," she sighed, rubbing at her eyes tiredly. "Now I just feel sorry for her."

They spoke to Albus a while longer, musing over the past, before Minerva lead the way up the staircase of the Head's tower, providing brief snippet's of historical fact that one wouldn't find in _Hogwarts: A History_ , much to Hermione's delight. She was amazed just how far up the tower went, and was half convinced there was an undetectable extension charm placed on it. By the time they reached the top level, Hermione's legs were aching, but upon seeing the view from the window, all thoughts left her mind. It had been years since she had seen a Hogwarts sunrise this high up, and her mind was immediately flooded with memories of the happy times she had spent within the ancient stone walls.

Seeing the faint smile on the younger woman's lips, Minerva left her for a moment at the window, while she went to undo the privacy wardings she'd done on the seemingly nondescript wardrobe housed at the top floor. After a few moments, and with a stone shaking bit of magical energy as the wards were broken, the door creaked open, bringing Hermione's attention back to the present.

"Come through," Minerva said, ushering her inside. With a flick of the Headmistress's wand conjuring bright lanterns, Hermione saw that the wardrobe was backless and it lead out into a small, circular room – _library_ , she corrected herself; the 8 foot high walls were shelves covered in books, most of which were chained and in protective cases. Even still, the stickiness of dark magic hung in the air, making Hermione's scars tingle.

"So," Hermione said, feeling incredible daunted as she realised just how many hundreds of books Albus had sequestered away up here, "Where the bloody hell do we start?"

* * *

Kingsley hurried through the never-ending maze of halls at the Department of Mysteries, urgent memo summons in hand as he made it to Lab 43. After submitting his wand and Ministry ID for the scanners, he was allowed through the steel doors, eyes adjusting to the blue light that ignited the underground room. It was sparsely decorated; four plain, yet messy desks, were against the back walls, leaving the majority of the room bare with notes upon notes hanging in what appeared to be mid-air. There were cauldrons and magnifying tables set up in the middle of the room, along with pure silver experimental tables – he inwardly cringed as he remembered the cost of buying 10 of them. "Morning, gentlemen," he said, making his way to his four Unspeakables, who were were looking over the notes in the air.

"Minister," Higgins greeted warmly. "Thanks for coming."

"I got your memo. How did her surgery go?" he asked, looking up at some of the recent pictures of Bellatrix Lestrange's arm, which now sported several surgery scars. He felt a wave of nausea at the stitches; Muggle hospital techniques never sat well with him.

Higgins sighed, rifling through some more of his photos and paperwork he'd yet to attach to the invisible board. "It was illuminating," he said slowly. "We took a few skin samples, as well as a biopsy of both a clean vein and one of those blackened ones she had. We even tried to take a sample of what was left of her Dark Mark scar, but it was literally untouchable. You could attack that scar through with a Goblin blade and it wouldn't penetrate the skin. I've never seen anything like it." He showed Kingsley photographs of Prue straining to pierce the scar with a scalpel, only for the scalpel to bend from the pressure she was placing on it.

"Merlin," Kingsley breathed, watching it replay. "Yet we're able to touch it? Her skin moves upon contact?" he asked, even though he knew the answer.

"I think if anyone tried to touch it gently, like with a finger, the scar is fine," Higgins said firmly. "If it feels threatened, I think it has a natural defence mechanism. Maybe to stop defector's from cutting it out of their flesh?" he suggested, earning murmurs of agreement from his co-workers.

"I wouldn't mind testing that theory on Amycus Carrow," James Corner muttered darkly from Kingsley's right, earning a small chuckle from the Minister. "Stab at his arm for a change; give the bastard a taste of his own medicine."

"Wouldn't we all," Kingsley mused, all too familiar with what Amycus had done to the students at Hogwarts during the War. "So, with all these tests...are we any closer to see what's actually going on under the skin?"

"The veins around the Mark scar are literally clogged with Dark Magic," Corner said, flicking his wand to enlarge pictures of the incisions Prue had made. A sticky, tar-like substance encased the walls, leaving little room for blood to pump through. The sight made Kingsley pale. "We took a sample, and we'll be taking a look at that today. If we can find out what it's made of, we might be able to find a way to speed up her body's natural extraction of it. It would have been throughout her entire vein network, including her brain. No wonder she was barking mad. I'm surprised it didn't kill her."

"She was a strong and powerful witch all on her own," Kingsley said. "I'd imagine she'd been fighting it her entire life." He had already begun to feel warmer towards the broken woman he was housing on the secret floor on St. Mungo's, but after seeing this physical evidence, it made him see her in a whole new light. The guilt of sitting by and letting her rot away a cell in Azkaban for the past two years was growing by the moment. "Do you four think that if we present these findings to the Aurors and Financiers, they would agree to make this a publicly funded investigation?" he asked, staring at his agents. With everything they had found so far, Kingsley wanted to process all convicted Death Eaters, to see what the link was between the red scars and the grey ones. Rabastan Lestrange had shattered the age theory, but that didn't completely discount the curse. There was another factor, and it was making him anxious not being able to put his finger on it.

"Give us a few days, Minister," Higgins said understandingly. "At least wait until we know a bit more about...this," he said, gesturing to the clogged veins.

"You mentioned that she _should_ be dead with all of this inside her," Kingsley mused, walking over again to the photos and standing between Higgins and Corner. "Maybe that's why these red scars are so rare? They're all already dead?"

Higgins raised his eyebrows thoughtfully, considering the notion. "Didn't Bletchley say she'd seen one before?" he asked, scrawling a the words ' _RED SCARS – ALL DEAD?_ 'on a piece of parchment, before sticking it on top of the board.

"Yes, but she can't remember who," Kingsley reminded him.

"Bring her in, we'll give her a memory potion," Higgins said, latching on to this new potential lead with an air of excitement. "We can see if they're still alive. You might be onto something here, Minister."

After exchanging a few pleasantries, despite the early hour, Kingsley left his investigators to work on their tests, with a promise to summon Prue once her shift of the hospital ended. The Minister made his way back to his office, head swimming with the many explanations he would have to come up with over this case within a matter of days. Never did he imagine that turning Bellatrix Lestrange into an Unnamed Prisoner could have such repercussions. He'd done all he could to keep her name from the list of the dead and other conspiracy articles, content with just letting her stay on the island for the rest of her days. He shuddered at the thought of what the fallout would be when the Wizarding world learned she was alive. Deciding to prolong that inevitable confession for as long as possible, he sat back in his office chair, running his hands harshly over his bald scalp. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

As the sun rose over the rooftops of London, Prue decided to take a brief respite from her surgery write-up and took a look out of the large window, taking a moment to breathe. It had been a long 14 hour shift, and she still had another hour to go. She sighed, realising it had been just over a week since she'd been thrown from her relatively private and sedentary retirement to full-time work, and the lack of sleep and constant stress were feelings she'd hoped she'd never experience again. Yet, she was back in the very hospital that had thrown her out two decades ago, only now tending once again to Death Eaters – although, St. Mungo's was a significant improvement from her Medic Wing in Azkaban, she had to admit.

The clock on the wall chimed, indicating she needed to once again check on her patient. She stifled a yawn as she walked over to the glass room that housed Bellatrix Lestrange. The patient was still out from her surgeries, and she could already see blood seeping through the bandages on her thin arms. At first, she had been furious at the amount of biopsies, exploratory incisions and extractions the Unspeakables had decided to perform on the poor woman, but she knew they shouldn't waste the opportunity. Any chance to study Bellatrix and whatever parasitic curse the Dark Lord had placed on her would lead to faster treatment plans.

Walking into the room, she summoned her dressings as she unwrapped the stained bandages off Bellatrix's left arm, face expressionless as she was faced with the mangled and stitched flesh underneath. Patches of skin were missing, and underneath that, entire sections of blackened veins had been removed, with clean ones having magically been re-grown. She dabbed on some more coagulant gel over the stitches, causing her patient to stir and her breathing to quicken.

"Ssssh," she soothed, brushing curls away from Bellatrix's pain-contorted face. "It's ok, Bellatrix."

Clouded black eyes opened and looked directly at Prue, full of confusion. It took a moment for them to focus. "The fuck happened, nursie?" the Death Eater croaked, eyes fluttering shut as she lay back in her pillows.

Prue's eyebrow raised slightly at her old Azkaban nickname being used. Bellatrix was always a bit more coherent when she first woke up, and the Healer often used this opportunity to speak plainly. "We had to operate on you," she explained softly. "How are you feeling, pet?" she asked, discarding the gel and wrapping fresh bandages over Bellatrix's arm.

Bellatrix frowned, and a sigh escaped from her. "Sore," she murmured. "My arms-"

"Here, drink," Prue said, summoning a pain relieving potion from the cabinet and holding it to Bellatrix's mouth. "What was the last thing you remember before now?"

After swallowing the potion gratefully, Bellatrix opened her eyes again, immediately glazing over as she tried to remember. "The Granger girl … Hermione … and old McGonagall … here," she said very slowly after quite a few moments. "Then pain."

Prue tutted sympathetically, moving over to the other side of the bed to work on her patient's other arm. "They invoked quite the reaction from you," Prue said, carefully unwrapping the compression bandage. "Whatever is in your veins and your head, girlie...it doesn't like you liking them."

At this, Bellatrix grimaced, instinctively pressing her palm to her forehead, trying to relieve the pressure. She started panting from the effort, and clawed desperately at the cold wash-cloth Prue pressed to her brow bone. "I see - what - you mean," Bellatrix muttered through gritted teeth, wincing.

Prue continued working on the arm, dabbing the same coagulant gel into the near-identical surgery scars she'd treated on the other side. After making sure the wounds were clean, she re-dressed them, eyes flickering to Bellatrix's face every few moments to assess what was going on in that head of hers. No amount of pain relief had even touched the pains Bellatrix experienced in her skull, even the more darker ones she'd taken from her own personal collection. She hated seeing her patients in this state.

"Nursie, what's happening to me?"

The vulnerability and innocence of Bellatrix's voice shocked Prue to the core. In all her years of knowing and treating the feared woman, she'd never sounded so broken and defeated."That's why you're here, pet," Prue said, placing a comforting hand on Bellatrix's shoulder. "We don't know. But me, Daph, Urie and Hermione are going to figure it out, I promise."

Bellatrix nodded, and Prue saw the haunted look return to the Death Eater's face. She was retreating; their brief few moments of conversing coming to a rapid halt. A moment later, she drew her thin knees up under her chin and stared at the opposite glass wall, features slackening as whatever was in her veins took hold of her once more. Prue pursed her lips as she stood, placing Bellatrix's arms on floating gutters to keep them elevated. Sometimes, when she looked at this calmer form of Bellatrix, she saw the shadow of the young toddler she used to baby-sit back in the early 50's. A quiet young thing, she remembered fondly.

"I'll be back with your breakfast soon, Bellatrix," Prue said kindly, unable to stop the sadness reaching her eyes as her patient remained unresponsive. She just stared, eyes unfocused and hollow. "Try not to move your arms," she added, trying to catch the witch's dark eyes. With silence being her answer, she sighed and left, wondering just how long it was going to take until the Department of Mysteries found some answers. _At least she's able to talk_ , she thought, remembering just who were housed three floors below.

"Auntie? Hello? Are you ok?" Daphne's soft voice broke through the elder Healer's thoughts as she strode into the office.

Prue nodded, clearing her throat and shaking the thoughts from her head. She hadn't realised the next shift had started and that Daphne had arrived. "Yes, I'm fine, dear," she said distractedly, giving her niece a quick hug. When it was just the two of them, she allowed herself to take down the Healer barriers she usually kept up. "Trying shift," she added, as Daphne busied herself with making tea. "How are you handling everything?"

Daphne sighed, running her hands through her long red hair. "Still trying to get my head around it," she admitted, offering a cup of tea to the older woman. "It's...almost unbelievable. I spoke to Tori last night and she told me Draco's side of things. It's horrible what he went through," she said, shaking her head sadly. "So, what's on the schedule today?"

Prue was about to answer when a puff of purple smoke appeared on her desk, leaving in it's wake a letter with Kingsley's Ministerial seal. "Hold that thought, Daph," she said, breaking the wax and unrolling the parchment.

 _Prue,_

 _Please come to my office at your first available opportunity. The DoM have some questions for you – you may be required to take a dosage of memory potion. We shouldn't keep you for longer than an hour._

 _Also please bring reports of Bellatrix's surgery recovery so far._

 _-KS_

Prue frowned at the note, not looking forward to being dosed with a memory potion. She'd last had it 4 years ago, and the taste was still as foul as it was in the 70's. After replying that she'd be there momentarily and gathering up her paperwork, she turned to Daphne, who had moved to watch Bellatrix pacing on the monitor. "I'm putting you in charge for an hour, dear," Pue said quickly, much to Daphne's surprise. "Help her with her breakfast, she can't use her arms. I've been summoned to the Ministry."

* * *

a/n: Sooo the investigation is picking up a bit of speed now! As always, let me know what you think - your reviews make my day! x


	8. Chapter 8

It was nearing 10am when two lynx patronus's broke through the Hogwarts wards, materialising in the dark library and emitting a silvery glow. Kingsley's melodious voice broke Hermione and Minerva out of their respective books, both exchanging raised eyebrows as the message sounded.

 _Prudence has named Antonin Dolohov as the other prisoner she saw in Azkaban with a red scar. There will be a meeting in my office at 3pm to discuss this properly._

Hermione's eyes widened at the name, remembering her own encounters with that particular Death Eater; yet another well known for his talent with the dark arts, and spell invention. Remarkably like Bellatrix, Hermione realised, however nothing like Draco. She pursed her lips, trying to recall what little she knew of Dolohov, before realising he was one of the few who the Order had struggled to get complete backgrounds on. She turned to look at Minerva, a small smirk on her face. "So, did Flitwick really kill Dolohov, or do you have any more surprises for us?" she asked, earning a strong eye-roll from her former Professor.

"Put him in the ground myself, thank you," Minerva said pointedly, levitating the book she was reading back to the shelf it came from, before she sent a patronus back to Kingsley, confirming both her and Hermione's attendance. "This certainly...what's that muggle phrase? 'Throws a snapper in the works'?" she said, as if thinking out loud. "We can't question a dead man. And he was older than Riddle, which disputes the age requirement..."

Leaving Minerva to her thoughts, Hermione picked up the few books she had found so far that might prove useful for the investigation team. She'd found five potions that had mind control properties, as well as two _Imperio_ variations from the early 18th century that made her ill just thinking of them. She shuddered as she remembered the other spells and theories the books held; there was certainly a reason why Albus had hidden them away. After stifling yet another yawn, Minerva shooed her out, suggesting Hermione take a nap and a proper meal before the Ministry meeting.

"Should we bring the books to the meeting?" Hermione queried as she threw floo powder into the grate.

Minerva nodded. "I have some wards to place on them first. And a contract. I'll not have the Ministry making copies of these vile things," she said knowingly, tapping her nose. "I'll see you later, dear."

With a weary smile, Hermione arrived home in a flurry of green flames, only to be met with a yowling Crookshanks, who was clearly in need of feeding – despite having plenty of food in his bowl, visible from the lounge. She quickly dusted the soot from her clothes and hurried to the kitchen, the eager cat at her heels. With a flick of her wand, the kettle was on and Crookshanks was happily devouring his breakfast. Seeing a pile of post waiting for her at the table, she took a seat, flicking through the envelopes.

"Ministry...Susan...Ministry...Ministry..." she murmured, setting work correspondence to one side. She was more than impressed with Susan Bones handling her workload, the office was running flawlessly, despite the insanity of Quidditch season. She made a mental note to pop in after the meeting if she had time, just to remind them all she still existed.

A small envelope with Draco's distinctive scrawl caught her attention. She opened it immediately, a grin crossing her lips as a photograph fell out of the letter; Draco and Teddy playing in a muggle park on the swing set. She smirked, realising the white blonde tone of Teddy's hair – _Someone likes his new extended family_ , Hermione thought of the little boy, who grinning widely at the camera in the sunlight. She set the picture aside, picking up the brief note that came along with it.

 _Granger,_

 _Thought you'd like to see this. The Tonks and Malfoy families are actually enjoying the other's company?! Minus Father, but that's to be expected. Drinks tomorrow at LC? Hope the case is going well, they've called me into St. Mungo's at midday. Should I be concerned?_

 _Teddy would like you to know he's looking forward to his game of wizards chess with you, in case you forgot the deal you made last visit._

 _Malfoy_

Snickering, Hermione quickly replied, thanking him for the photo, wishing him luck at the hospital, and agreeing to meet at the Leaky Cauldron tomorrow. As she made her way to her room, cup of tea in hand and fatigue setting in, she took a moment to smile. Regardless of the turnout of the case, at least families are reuniting and moving forward. She knew how long Andromeda had wanted this. _Bellatrix is already doing some good in the world_ , she realised, the thought making her fall to sleep with a hint of a smile.

* * *

"Thank you all for coming at such short notice."

Kingsley sat down at the circular table, glancing around at the small group he assembled. Unspeakables Higgins, Corner and Stewart were on his left, all three with a mountain of files before them. Prue sat with Hermione and Minerva, the older two witches deep in conversation until but a moment ago. Harry was sitting silently on Kinglsey's right, reading over several files. Hermione couldn't help but notice the growing look of confliction passing over his features. _He's considering it, finally_ , she realised, feeling the utmost sympathy for what internal struggles he would be going through. She tried to give him a reassuring smile over the table, before giving Kinglsey her full attention once more.

"It's been an interesting 36 hours," the Minister continued, "and for that, I commend you all for your professionalism and quick thinking. To get all of you up to speed, we now have physical proof Bellatrix's tattoo did _something_ to her. There is a dark … substance? Matter?-" he looked questioningly at Higgins, who have an uneasy shrug. "Something like that in her veins, anyway."

"Whatever it is, it's dying," Higgings said, taking over. "The longest infected section we found was only 4 inches long. It's receding, we're just not sure how as of yet. We believe, at the height of his power, her entire body would have been riddled with it-" he explained, flicking his wand to bring up images. Hermione felt her stomach turn at the sight of surgery pictures; she swallowed hard and looked instead at the Unspeakable, rather than the pictures he was pointing to. "-Infecting her heart and brain. We have found parasitic qualities to it; it certainly did not want to be extracted and did all it could to latch on to her as we tried to scrape some of it into vials."

Steadying her stomach, Hermione looked at the pictures of the substance. It looked almost like tar, thick and sticky. She felt repulsed that the witch had lived most of her life with that in her, and no one had known. _The poor woman_ , she thought. Trying not to focus on the 'what if's' of the situation, she was brought back to reality by Minerva's voice.

"Do you have any idea how this matter got into her veins, Mr. Higgins?" the Headmistress asked, studying the pictures intently from her seat. Her expression was unreadable, but if how thin her lips were was anything to go by, Hermione guessed that Minerva was just as uneasy as she was.

"Possible theories are it was injected at the same time the Dark Mark was being tattooed," Higgins replied, magnifying one of the images of the open veins, "or it stems from the tattoo itself, given that that is where the 'infection', as we're calling it, starts. You saw how the veins and capillaries surrounding the scar were black once the glamour was removed. We did the same revealing charm on Draco Malfoy earlier, and while he only has minimal infection in his veins, it's still there."

As Higgins brought up images of Draco's forearm – _that explains why he was summoned to St. Mungo's_ , Hermione thought, recalling his earlier letter – she couldn't help but be surprised at how different his veins were to his Aunts. While Bellatrix's were as black as night under the glamour charm, Draco's were grey, and barely longer than a centimetre, all connecting to the red scar. She couldn't help but wonder what his arm would have been like three years ago

"We'll make copies of our reports so far and forward them to all of you," Higgins continued, looking around at everyone. "We'll be here all afternoon discussing, otherwise. We need to turn our attention to Dolohov."

An uneasy silence fell as nearly everyone shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, exchanging concerned glances with their neighbours. Hermione still found it rather chilling how similar the wizard was to Bellatrix. He was powerful, and intelligent enough to invent his own curses, as well as one of the more fanatically loyal followers, having spent just as long in Azkaban as the Lestrange's. She remembered his cold eyes as she had obliviated him in the diner; nothing but darkness swirling in their depths. Could that darkness have been a curse, instead?"

"First things first, Antonin Dolohov is actually dead?" Harry asked, speaking for the first time since the meeting commenced. He shot a look between Minerva and Kingsley, raising an eyebrow at them both.

"Dolohov was killed by Filius Flitwick in the Battle," Minerva confirmed understandingly. "And I disposed of the body myself."

"Define 'disposed', please, Professor," Higgins requested, raising an eyebrow at his former teacher. With a response of pursed lips and a frown from Minerva, he elaborated. "I know, I know, that's all classified for us lesser mortals, but is the body able to be exhumed? Can we study it?"

"It is, and you can," Minerva finally nodded, ignoring a questioning frown from Kingsley with a simple shake of her head. "I'll see to it you have him within the next three days. That should give you time to prepare a morgue."

It wasn't often Hermone realised just how far into a variety of cover-ups Minerva was involved in, but hearing her talk like the deepest of Unspeakables and exchanging pointed glances and subtle eyebrow movements with the Minister definitely made her remember how close to darkness they all tread for a while. Secrets of war, it seemed, were still far from over.

"Excellent," Corner said briskly, pushing past Kingsley and Minerva's odd exchange. "If he had a red scar, there will hopefully be matter in his remains."

At this, Prue chuckled. "Oh, he definitely had the scar. How does this tie in with the age theory?" she asked, leaning forwards with avid interest. "He's much older than Bellatrix..."

"It doesn't," Hermione said, shaking her head and grimacing. Not knowing the link was weighing heavily on her; she was desperate to get to the bottom of this entire puzzle. "You said he was older than Voldemort, Minerva?" she asked, mind flashing back to the library.

"Indeed, he was one of the Original 7," Minerva confirmed. A wave of her hand made a dusty old file materialise in the middle of the table, which she offered to the Unspeakables. "According to Albus's old Order records – _these_ – Dolohov didn't meet Riddle until 1955. Files from Koldovstroetz show he was born in 1922, so he was at least 33 when he was branded. The question is, now, what's the link? Why him, Black and a 16 year old boy?"

Again, silence fell, people lost in their own thoughts, the only noise being the sound of rustling parchment as the Unspeakables read Dolohov's Order file. Hermione ran her hands through her curly hair, staring at the mugshots of Bellatrix, Draco and the newest person of interest. _What's so special about you three?_ she asked the photographs, seeing nothing whatsoever tying all three of them together. Draco looked terrified, while Bellatrix and Dolohov looked mad; eyes shining and mad smiles on their faces. It was unnerving, especially since both had given her lasting scars from the war.

She reached for her notebook and pen, casting an encryption glamour so that she cold write her notes without anyone reading over her shoulder. With so many thoughts running through her head, she knew she had to write them all down, lest she forget something.

 _Skilled torturers_ , she wrote, followed by Bellatrix and Dolohov's initials. She paused, thinking back to Voldemorts battle ranks. While Bellatrix had always been his second in command, everyone assumed the third was Lucius, however if Dolohov was cursed, wouldn't it make more sense for him to be there, and Lucius on a lower rank? She quickly scrawled that down, adding a question as to how Draco fit in to that theory. Perhaps because he was the one to infiltrate Hogwarts? However, that would mean Severus would have had the same control, whereas she knew for a fact his Mark was grey during her school years, while Dolohov's was red in Azkaban during the same time. She gritted her teeth, but kept her musings in her book, regardless. If she had learned anything from Albus Dumbledore, it's to never ignore what could appear to be useless information.

 _Wealth?_ was her next thought, knowing just how wealthy the Black, Lestrange and Malfoy families were, and how poor Voldemort was. Given how little was known of Dolohov, she wasn't sure if he fit in with that theory.

Around her, she heard the Unspeakables and Kingsley talking in hushed voices, before the Minister straightened and cleared his throat. "Any ideas? Hermione, I'm sure you've got a few running around that mind of yours."

Hermione felt a blush creeping up her neck at being caught out writing her notes. Ignoring her slight embarrassment, she said, "I'm just trying to find connections, but I can't find one for all three of them that makes complete sense. Unless there is no connection, and it's a cruel kill-switch should his followers abandon him, but that would mean everyone would have one, not just these three. I thought skill-level could be a connection, but again, _why these three?_ If he was branding to control skill, Severus would be on this list. Bellatrix and Dolohov were fanatics, but Draco displayed no such insanity during his brief time as a Death Eater..." she trailed off, looking to Minerva for her opinion. _Old habits die hard_ , she thought, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at herself.

"The skill-level could be something," Higgins said appreciatively, turning to Corner and Stewart, both murmuring in agreement. "It's a start. We were wondering if it was genetics; Black and Malfoy families stem back to the 13th century, and the Dolohov's have featured in Russian wizarding history since the building of Durmstrang..."

"Also a good point," Minerva said, surveying the Unspeakables over her spectacles. "But unlike the Black and Malfoy families, the Dolohov's were never actively dark families. They were more the scholarly type, rather than fighters. Up until the turn of the 20th century, anyway. Antonin obviously went dark-" she stopped mid-sentence, furrowing her brow. While Higgins continued expanding on the theory, Hermione could see her mentor's mind working. " _What if he didn't..._ " she heard the older woman breathe, conjuring a scroll of parchment and quill from the air before writing furiously.

Noticing Minerva working, Kingsley cleared his throat. "10 minute break, I think," he said awkwardly, before Minerva held up a hand to silence him.

"No, stay," she said, voice changing to that of the formidable Headmistress. "I think we're looking at this wrong. Rather than what they _offer_ Riddle, it's what he had to lose if they refused him? If, say, they joined The Order instead?"

Hermione's eyes widened, and she leaned back in her chair, staring at Mineva with her jaw slightly slackened. Her mind whirled digesting this idea. "The Order would have had significant fighting ability if Dumbledore had poached Bellatrix and Dolohov," she mused. "But Bella joined Voldemort as a teenager, she wouldn't have even known of the Order's existence, so why would he do that to her?"

"Her potential? To get in first?" Kingsley suggested, with a shrug of his large shoulders. "Voldemort's like Slughorn, he likes his prizes."

"So why doesn't Malfoy Senior have a red scar?" Prue countered fairly. "Or the Lestrange's? They were as much of a prize as Bellatrix. And why would Draco be given the cursed Mark?"

"Draco was weak, he was hardly a prize," Hermione said, remembering the shell of a man he had become in his 6th year. "Him joining the Death Eaters was Voldemort's revenge against Lucius for getting caught, and also so his mother wouldn't be harmed. He really didn't have a choice."

At this, Minerva's eyes snapped to Hermione, frowning. "Remember this morning, when I asked if Bellatrix joined willingly … Could that be it? Is the cursed Mark because they were forced to join?"

"Well, Andy believes it was part of her sister's marriage contract," Kingsley said, causing both witches to break eye contact and look at him. "Sounds like a forced agreement to me."

Hermioe nodded. "Like Draco."

"So that leaves Dolohov," Higgins muttered, going through the old file Minerva had given him earlier. "Does anyone know how or why he joined? Harry, do you have his Ministry file?"

"Of course," Harry said, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out two three inch thick stacks of papers, looking a little apologetic at the extent of the files. "He was present at a lot of crime scenes," he offered as a way of an explanation, as Minerva and Kingsley took a stack each and began sifting through, with the help of Higgins and Harry.

Hermione, meanwhile, turned to a new page in her notebook and began writing once more;

 _Bellatrix: Forced via marriage?_

 _Reasons: Magical potential? Perfect target, easy to break and mould?_

 _Draco: Forced via threats to family_

 _Reasons: The price to pay for Lucius's imprisonment. To follow through with the Hogwarts plan? (why not Imperio?)_

 _Antonin Dolohov: potentially forced? If true, patient zero for cursed ink - could be experiment?_

 _Reasons: Powerful wizard, spell inventor, would be good to have on your side in a duel._

Clearing her throat, Hermione nudged Minerva. "You said that the Dolohov family wasn't necessarily dark?" she murmured, breaking her mentor away from the bigger conversation. It was only then, when she placed a hand on Minerva's arm, that Hermione realised her mentor was shaking. She raised an eyebrow, but it was quickly dismissed wish a small shake of the head.

"Later," Minerva muttered. "And yes, they weren't a dark family," she said, voice returning to normal. "They were scholars, most of the spell books on the Koldovstroetz and Durmstrang book lists were written by his family."

"So he'd be an intelligent ally to have in a war?" Hermione asked, hoping to confirm one of her reasons why he'd be a controlled follower. "Someone Voldemort would want to keep close at all costs, purely for the magical potential Dolohov possessed?"

A knowing glint appeared in emerald eyes and Minerva nodded along with Hermione's words. "I would be willing to say the same of Bellatrix," she said slowly.

"But Draco doesn't fit, he was certainly not at the same skill-level as them," Harry pointed out.

It was only then that Hermione realised Harry, Kingsley, Higgins and Prue were all listening in attentively. "But he _was forced_ to join," Hermione said. "Maybe that's why Voldemort needed to control them? They didn't _want_ to be Death Eaters?"

Higgins shook his head. " _Plenty_ were forced in the second war, we'd-"

"He had people power to enforce his threats by then," Minerva countered. " _Fear_ controlled. In the First War, however, it was only the true believers that sought to follow Tom Riddle – the Lestrange brothers being a perfect example – they were bred for it. MacNair, Crabb, The Carrow's, Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape...all willing participants. All put their faith in their misguided cause."

"Hence they'd be able to defect mid-battle, or claim to be under the _Imperius_ curse the first time 'round," Hermione mused, thinking of the Malfoy patriarch, wading through the wounded crowd with his wife, wandless and searching for Draco... She shuddered at the memory, bringing herself back to the present.

"Or switch sides, like Snape," Kingsley added, earning a murmur of agreement from Harry.

"Seek to destroy a Horcrux, like Regulus," Harry smirked, shooting a knowing look at Hermione, who nodded back.

"While Bellatrix Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov would go to Azkaban," Prue said sadly, speaking up for the first time in a while. "I assume the curse wouldn't allow them to even suggest they were under some sort of control? They would be forced to be proud of their crimes?" She couldn't hide the sadness in her eyes, and she was paler than Hermione had ever seen her.

"That's what their trials were like," Higgins said, stretching back in is chair. "I was in MLE at the time, saw them all. Lestrange was mad, and Dolohov was still threatening all hell on old Mad-Eye when they hauled him out of the chamber. Haunts your nightmares, that's for sure. Even the Dementor's couldn't shut those two up."

With several people starting to talk at once, Kingsley held up his hand for silence. He looked around at them all, noting the exhausted and conflicted faces surrounding him. "I think it's time we called it a day," he said, sounding just as tired as everyone else looked. "Big progress, guys. I'm very happy with how things are going. So the working theory now is that the red scars signify being _forced_ into becoming a Death Eater, yes?"

Agreements sounded as people started packing up heir files and notes, duplicating what they needed. Hermone saw Unspeakable Corner wince slightly as he took on the mammoth task of copying Antonin's file from the Auror department. She didn't envy the man – 50 years of criminal behaviour, plus two wars gave a Dolohov an extensive record. She couldn't help but wonder what what his life would have been like should he not have crossed paths with Tom Riddle.

"In that case," Kingsley continued, "I think we'll need to change questioning tactics. Re-interview Draco. I also want to see if there is a copy of the Black-Lestrange wedding arrangement in existence. Harry, I'll leave that to you and your department-"

"You can count on us, Minister," Harry said, nodding his head firmly.

"And Minerva, Dolohov's body-?"

Minerva silenced him with a pointed look. "On Friday. And a _private_ word on that, Minister, once this is over?" she asked, although Hermione could tell it wasn't a question.

The Minister nodded. "Of course," he said quietly, before resuming his normal booming tone. "I'll owl you all with details of the next meeting. Keep up the good work. You all look dead on your feet, get some rest." He smiled, taking the time to shake everyone's hand as they left – even after working together for years, Hermione still greatly admired Kingsely's work ethic.

After gathering her things, Hermione felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see Harry – just Harry, her friend, not the Ministry official she had witnessed for the past few hours. "I was meeting Ginny and Ron for dinner, want to join us?" he asked, messing up his already messy hair. How someone with hair that untamable was the grandson of the inventor of SleekEazy's, she had no idea.

She considered for a moment, torn between wanting to catch up on sleep or having a social life. "You know what," she said, realising she'd yet to see her friends alone for far too long. "Yes. Just let me stop by Law Enforcement first, I need to see Susie. The Austrian security measures for the Cup are driving her mad..."

As they left, both mentally disengaging from the heavy meeting, the sound of Kingsley hiccoughing loudly caught their attention. Hermione quickly turned, noticing the miniature books Minerva was handing to the Minister, and his rather grim and tense expression, now he had recovered from what she guessed to be shock. Minerva shot her a tiny smirk, and she inwardly chuckled, not even wanting to know what the Headmistress's inordinate terms were for loaning such dangerous books to the Ministry.

"Do I even want to ask?" Harry said, taking in the odd exchange before him and looking rather befuddled.

"No," Hermione told him firmly. "You really don't."


	9. Chapter 9

With Minerva having disappeared to Merlin knows where, and Kinglsey refusing her offer to help both the Unspeakables and the Aurors, Hermione was rather daunted to find herself with free time on her hands. She hated days off, she _needed_ to be working. She'd unpacked the last of her possessions. She'd cleaned. She ate a reasonable breakfast, for a change, instead of her usual large coffee and nothing else. Even Crookshanks had been brushed, much to his displeasure – he had taken to scowling at her from underneath the television unit while she was curled up on the couch with the _Daily Prophet_. She had taken to reading the paper again for any hint of a scandal breaking about about Bellatrix being alive, or that the Ministry was investigating Death Eaters once more.

As much as she tried to avoid it, her thoughts kept on returning to Bellatrix, trapped in a mind that was not her own. With the age theory now discounted, the latest was even worse. Voldemort wanted her power for himself, essentially, and was willing to do whatever it took to keep her loyal. She felt nauseated that she had been practically a child at the time – 15. In her fifth year at school. She never had a chance. With her intelligence and magical prowess, Bellatrix could have gone on to achieve Masteries, worked for the Ministry, developed ways to _fight_ Voldemort, even. Yet she spent the best years of her life locked in a cell, slowly going madder and madder, both from the Mark, and the Dementors.

 _And now she's trapped in a hospital, not even understanding what was going on because her mind's so broken._

She sighed, stretching her back as she closed the newspaper. She wanted to _see_ Bellatrix. Observe her. Try to find a way to break through those maddening walls the darkness had created. And to do that, Bellatrix needed to get used to her presence. While Kingsley had said she couldn't do any work for the case at the Ministry, he never specified anything about St. Mungo's. As she stood up to get ready and face the day, she turned to look at the still-scowling Crookshanks. "Get over it," she told him. "All the lady cats will love you now that you don't have dreadlocks in your fur."

He snarled.

 _I'm talking to my cat, and I'm about to willingly visit the woman who tortured me. I truly have gone mad_ , she thought, before heading over to the table and writing a quick note to the Healers, asking if it was okay for her to stop by at some point during the day. She sent it through the fire, and started anxiously waiting for a response. She started doubting herself – _was this strange? Too forward?_ She felt she didn't know her own mind any more; this case had distorted everything. Especially with Prue's revelation about Antonin Dolohov, a Death Eater remarkably similar to Bellatrix.

Like Bellatrix, Antonin had left his mark on her flesh. In the Department of Mysteries in her fifth year, he had cursed her with a cruel spell of his own invention, and she bore the scars to this day – scar tissue in the shape of swirling flames across her chest. While it wasn't as ugly as the one Bellatrix had given her, it was still a reminder. If he turned out to be innocent, however, the _Weasley's_ would now be in the same position as the remaining Longbottom family; Antonin had murdered Molly's two brothers during the first war. And while Molly had been understanding at the Order meeting about Bellatrix, Hermione doubted whether that would extend to the man responsible for killing _her_ family, even if the man was dead.

 _But if he was controlled..._

Merlin, it was all so messy.

Green flames brought her out of her thoughts, and a piece of parchment fluttered through the grate.

 _Fine by me! Come over in an hour, Hermione. She's still in pain from the surgery, so she might like to see someone who isn't poking and prodding her constantly. -Daphne._

Plans for the day set, Hermione hurried to the shower, and was only briefly stopped on her way there by Crookshanks swiping at her from his hiding place. Once more, she politely but firmly told him to get over himself. "Most cats _like_ being brushed, you know," she informed him pointedly.

This time, he hissed.

"You're impossible," she said, rolling her eyes. _Whatever did I do to get such a grouchy cat_?

* * *

As soon as she stepped out of the fire grate, Hermione found herself enveloped in a rib-cracking hug from Daphne. Slightly taken aback by it, she gave an awkward laugh. Before she even had a chance to ask what brought that display of affection on, Daphne launched into an excited spiel.

"This is off the record, ok? Right now, we're just friends, not nurse and Ministry investigator, got it?" she asked, grinning.

"Okay...?" Hermione said, a little warily as they made their way over to the couch. While she and Daphne knew each other, it certainly wasn't as well enough as this display of emotions entailed. However, as soon as Daphne had flicked her wand to bring over a tray of tea and began to explain, Hermione understood perfectly.

"I've been given permission to tell you – Draco's proposing to Tori. And he needs our help."

Hermione actually squealed, grinning just as widely as Daphne. "Are you serious? That's fantastic!"

Daphnee nodded excitedly, positively bouncing on the couch as she spoke. "I'm meeting him for dinner tonight, and I've been told in no uncertain terms what will happen if I _don't_ bring you along. So try not to get murdered by Bellatrix today, please."

With a laugh, Hermione said, "I'll do my best. How is she doing?"

At this, Daphne gestured to the display screens. "She's dozing. Her left arm is in a significant amount of pain – much more-so than her right. We've got her on pain relieving potions, but they're not helping, so we've got to sedate her instead, just to let her sleep it off. She's tough, though. She's also-" she _accio_ ed some papers from the main desk, and started reading from them; "gained 2 pounds, had a successful iron transfusion and is managing to stomach more than just soup and bread – we've started her on mashed vegetables and small bits of chicken. As soon as she can eat chocolate, we'll be happy – it'll slowly negate the effect all those Dementor's had on her. But that's still at least a week or two away. For the moment, though... Things are going pretty well."

Hermione nodded, giving a smile as Daphne passed the papers to her, reading the charts for herself. "How's the physio coming along?"

"Well," Daphne began, "she's perfectly fine pacing in the confines of her room, but walking in the corridor – in the open space – seems to terrify her. I think it's maybe because if she needs a break, the bed's _right there_ , but the corridor is empty. So we'll have to work on that. Maybe you could do that today? Walk with her around the corridor?"

Hermione riased her eyebrows, considering it. _Yes,_ she thought. _The perfect trust exercise_. "Sounds like a plan, Daph," she smiled. "Thanks for this – I offered my services to the Ministry, but Kingsley told me to take the day off."

Daphne sniggered. "You? Day off? Not bloody likely. Oh well, saves me from going barmy all on my own here. Jackson, the auror on guard, _isn't_ all that talkative."

They finished their tea, Daphne filling Hermione in on the latest gossip – not that Hermione knew most of the people she was talking about, but she listened anyway, looking scandalised at the appropriate moments. Truthfully, it was nice spending time with someone who didn't expect her to be up-to-date with the latest news, or to be the fearless war-hero people believed her to be. She felt at ease. _No wonder she went into Healing_ , Hermione thought, _Daph has a way of relaxing you – perfect for a hospital bedside manner._ She hoped this case would fast-track her graduation – working on a confidential investigation for the Ministry was no small feat. Compassion for the most hated of humanity was hard to come by.

After learning that Pansy Parkinson was Rita Skeeter's new intern _(dear God, is there no mercy?_ she wondered, rather horrified at the future of journalism in the Wizarding world) _,_ Hermione made a point of glancing at the monitors and, upon seeing that Bellatrix's eyes were open, decided that it was probably time for her to get to work. "How should we approach this?" she asked Daphne, after the Healer noticed Hermione's gaze. "Should you warn her, or do you think she'll be fine if I just walk in?"

Daphne considered for a moment, and rifled through some of the papers she had previously summoned. She twisted her mouth as she read, humming occasionally. "Given the fact that, underneath, she does seem to like you to a degree, I think it would be good to watch her reaction if you did this on your own. Jackson will be on guard should anything happen. Leave your wand here, though, just in case. But I know you're a beast at wandless if she tries anything, anyway. I'll be watching, of course," she added, pointing to the monitoring screens, "So really, you're safe. I promise."

Hermione nodded. "I trust you," she said, handing over her wand and shrugging out of her jacket. She smoothed over her jeans before taking a deep breath to ready herself. There was still that part of her that was scared, however it was getting slightly smaller each day. The only violence Bellatrix had shown so far was towards herself, rather than those around her. Good for her Healers, of course, but still concerning nonetheless.

"Ready?" Daphne asked, opening the office door.

"Ready," Hermione said, walking out with falsified confidence. Bellatrix was staring at the ceiling, and didn't notice someone was in the ward until Hermione had opened the glass door to her room.

The witch frowned slightly upon seeing her, and slowly sat up in her bed, cocking her head to the side.

Hermione smiled. "Hello, Bella," she said, walking slowly as to not spook her. She came to a stop next to the left bedside table, and dropped to her knees, so that she was looking up at the Death Eater. "How are you today?"

Bellatrix hummed darkly. "Sore arms," she said. "Haven't scared you off yet, then?" she asked, the hint of a smirk on her pale lips. For once, however, the snark wasn't laced with venom. More...disbelief.

 _Curious_ , Hermione thought, filing that bit of information away for later. "Not yet," she said brightly. "Took an oath, I told you. Do you feel up for a bit of a walk?"

Slowly, Bellatrix nodded, and began to swing her legs out from under the white hospital sheets. Hermione helped her to her feet, taking care to only touch her hands, rather than her bandaged forearms. She winced as she saw the hints of red under the bandages on the left – for the blood to still not be clotting properly, the Darkness must be so potent. Even George's ear had stopped after 24 hours, and that was without coagulant gel.

"Do you want me to tie your hair back?" Hermione asked her, noticing how it kept on getting in Bellatrix's eyes. Given she herself was familiar with wild, unruly curls, she knew how irritating it could be and, for the moment, the less irritants Bellatrix had, the better. At a nod from the dark witch, Hermione took a tissue and wandlessly transfigured it into a hair tie, then quickly scooped up the curls into a pony tail. "There you go," she said softly a moment later. "And don't say 'thank you'," she added quickly, "we don't want to risk you getting a headache."

Bellatrix chuckled, having watched the display of magic. "Wandless transfiguration...you know, they said you were smart," she muttered.

Hermione didn't know which 'they' she was talking about and, after thinking on it for a moment, decided she didn't want to. Instead, she said, "Yup, seven NEWTs, all 'outstanding'. What did you get on yours?" As she spoke, Bellatrix took a few tentative steps, and Hermione made a hasty plan in her head – _if I keep her talking, she'll be distracted. Hopefully, that'll let us get out of the room, and she'll see that the corridor is safe._

"Seven," she said. "Four E's, three O's. Old Sluggy was pleased – only took him seven bloody years to realise that Black's are more than a name."

They were nearing the door now, Bellatrix managing to walk on her own without assistance, despite her pencil-thin legs. Instead of heading to the corridor yet, Hermione turned her, so that they walked around to the other side of the bed, taking it one step at a time.

"Were you in his Slug Club?" Hermione asked as they turned again, and paced back to the other side of the bed.

Bellatrix snorted. "I _hated_ that club. He only asked me to join because of my lineage. Didn't give a fuck about my marks." While her jaw had become set hard, it softened before she spoke again. "At least when McGonagall praises you, you know you've earned it."

Once more, Hermione found herself surprised by Bellatrix's priorities. She was studious. She wanted to succeed because she earned it, rather than because her last name made things easier for her. _Merlin, the sooner she can talk to her sisters, the better_ , she thought, realising that she saw elements of both Narcissa _and_ Andromeda in this hidden personality of hers.

"Minerva's fair like that," Hermione agreed fondly, hoping that wherever in the world she was, the Hogwarts Headmistress was safe. She'd heard rumours of the lengths several Auror's and Ministry officials had gone to to dispose of some of the bodies – deliberately hidden and buried in placed almost completely inaccessible. After the meeting, however, she had reason to believe it had been Minerva herself running that particular operation herself. She could almost hear Minerva's voice in her head; _well, it_ seemed _like a good idea at the time...how was I to know we'd have to dig them up again?_

"She still teaching?" Bellatrix asked as Hermione steered them towards the door. The older witch stopped briefly, fear flickering across her face, but Hermione placed her arm around the older woman's waist and directed her out of the room. Bellatrix flinched at the initial contact, but relaxed into it after a moment. They managed five steps before she stopped again, leaning against the wall and catching her breath.

Remembering the question, Hermione answered. "She's still teaching the NEWT students," she said, "but her Headmistress duties take precedence. The school is running brilliantly under her leadership." She paused, looking at Bellatrix once more, dressed in a simple white hospital tunic. She looked exhausted, but as she brought her dark eyes up to meet Hermione's, she saw a bit of fire hidden in their murky depths. "You like Minerva, don't you?" she asked tentatively, wanting to gauge Bellatrix's true feelings for the woman; wondering if Bellatrix, like her, admired her for her skill and power, or whether it was maternal, or romantic, even. Bellatrix's mind was full of endless possibilities, and Hermione was willing to bet Minerva was even more striking than she was now at the time Bellatrix attended Hogwarts.

Bellatrix nodded quickly, a small smile on her lips, but otherwise looking lost in thoughts. "She's a good person," she said after a long silence. He witch said no more, and started walking again. Hermione knew there was more to the story, but didn't want to push it. She made a note to ask Minerva some more questions – it wouldn't surprise her if the Headmistress had omitted more personal information when Hermione had originally enquired about Bellatrix.

Once Hermione had caught up to Bellatrix, who had grown slightly unsteady on her own, Hermione quickly replaced her arm around her waist again, which calmed the older woman. Together, they walked in silence for a while, Bellatrix stopping every now and again to peer inquisitively at some of the medical equipment in the ward. Hermione didn't stop her; she was just glad Bellatrix was up and out of bed.

"Tell me something about yourself," Bellatrix said after they'd done another lap of the corridor. She stopped and stared into Hermione's eyes, scrutinising her features. "We're on uneven grounds here, Hermione Granger. You know a lot about me, and I know very little of you other than your blood status, choice of-" she grimaced slightly as she said the next word. "- _friends_ , and your NEWT scores."

Hermione tried to hide her surprise. That was the longest bit of speech Bellatrix had managed so far, and it was completely coherent. It was a phenomenal improvement. Perhaps distraction was a way to break down the walls and chains holding her? They resumed walking while Hermione thought for a moment. "I have a pet cat," she said eventually, deciding that pets were a safe subject. "His name is Crookshanks. He's part Kneazle, and he's currently very angry with me because I gave him a long over-due brush this morning. He prefers the 'matted pile of fur' look," she explained, with a laugh. "My duvet cover, however, doesn't, nor do my pillows, couch and cushions," she grinned, watching Bellatrix's face closely to see her reaction.

The older witch smiled, than a look of realisation dawned on her. Her eyes turned mischievous. "Is – is that the cat that tried to _eat_ Pettigrew? When he was the rat for all those years?" she asked, eyebrow raised.

Hermione tried – and failed – not to laugh. "Yes," she admitted.

Bellatrix cackled, and Hermione got the feeling she didn't like Peter Pettigrew very much. "Do thank – _Crookshanks_ , was it? – for his admirable efforts," she smirked. "I-" she stopped, hands flying to her head and she doubled over. "God – fucking – _damn it_ ," she grunted, and Hermione realised what was happening. The look of agony twisting Bellatrix's features said it all; she had lost control once more. The dark matter was seeping back into her mind.

Heart racing, Hermione ran back to the office to get help, however Daphne and Uritch hurtled out in a flurry of green Healer robes before she got there, picking up the fallen witch in one fluid motion and tipping a potion down her throat. Immediately, she slumped, unconscious, as they carried her back to her bed, Hermione following behind, watching sadly. They had been going so well. She knew it couldn't have lasted much longer, but it was still disconcerting to see how quickly she changed. She seemed to have enjoyed herself, which brought her some measure of relief. _I must bring a picture of Crooks to show her_ , she mused. _It'll brighten up her room..._

"Great work, Hermione," Daphne said over her shoulder, as they tucked Bellatrix into her sheets. "I'm honestly surprised she managed for so long. Every day, she's improving. Prue will be thrilled."

"Seconded," Uritch said, shooting her a smile. "Good to see you, Granger."

"You too, Rosier," she said, leaning against the door frame. "Will she be ok?" she asked, concern clouding her features.

He nodded. "We just have to knock her out for a few hours and then she's fine again. Since the extraction," he continued, "We've noticed that her pain is worse, _however_ , her episodes of normality are longer. Cruel, really. It's such a complex bit of magic. You have to admire Him for his skill."

He said it with a little bit too much awe, and at Hermione's scathing look, he blanched, and quickly busied himself with running some more diagnostics, while Daphne hissed, "Rosier, _shut up._ "

With a roll of her eyes, Hermione decided to respond. "Yes, Voldemort was intelligent," she said coolly, "but it was his arrogance _over_ that fact that was his undoing. Even with Bellatrix here – I don't think he ever thought she'd be strong enough to fight his control, yet she has."

Daphne nodded. "And she's getting stronger each day," she said quickly, trying to alleviate the tension. "Aunt Prue knows how to look after prisoners really well. Azkaban isn't designed to keep them even remotely healthy."

After making one final note, both Healers turned and, after gesturing for Hermione to go through the door first, lead the way back to the office, jabbering away in medical terms Hermione was a bit too distracted to pay attention to. She was doing the calculations in her head over what Uritch had said about how Bellatrix had changed since the extraction. If the pain was getting worse, and there was still so much of the matter to still purge the woman of, Hermione shuddered to think of how bad it would be until it got better. Sedating her was merely blanketing the problem – the pain was still there, and along with that, the body's natural response. If they weren't careful, it could become very dangerous, very quickly...

Hermione was surprised to find herself sitting in her usual armchair in the office, absent-mindedly stirring sugar into her tea, having been completely lost in her thoughts for a while. Daphne and Uritch seemed to be attuned to her ways now, as both were leaving her be. She guessed Daphne remembered how she worked from school; for that, she was grateful. She knew she could be grouchy when people interrupted her thinking, especially about work. She reached for a biscuit, hoping the Unspeakables were making progress with some of the books Minerva had loaned them. The tomes were surely dark enough to have an answer lurking somewhere, she thought.

"Back with us, Hermione?" Daphne asked from the desk, shooting her a grin.

"Yep, just thinking," she said, hiding her blush by taking a sip of tea. "I should go, I don't think Bellatrix will be well enough to see me again today. Can I come again tomorrow?"

Daphne and Uritch looked at each other. "We'd best ask Prue," Uritch said, a little uncertainly. "She might take a bit longer to recover this time, because she's still so weak from the surgery.

"Ah, of course," Hermione said, understanding completely. "Well, let me know."

"I'll owl you," Daphne promised. "Or I'll tell you at dinner. 7.30, _Monte Carlos_ in Diagon Alley. Blaise and Neville will be there, too-"

Hermione coughed. "Those two? In the same room?" she interrupted incredulously. While Neville and Draco had gotten over their differences and became quite good friends during their eighth year at Hogwarts, Neville and Blaise still didn't see eye to eye.

"I know," Daphne said, in a low voice. "But I'm sure they can put their differences aside to help with this proposal. Draco is important to them both. And if they – well, if _Blaise_ acts up, I'll hex him," she added cheerily. " _No one_ is getting in the way of my little sister having the most _perfect_ engagement."

The gleam in her eyes made Hermione remember _why_ Daphne was a Slytherin. Whatever she and Draco were planning for Astoria, Hermione would, for once, follow directions without question.

"Remind me not to cross you," Hermione laughed, taking a pinch of floo powder and stepping into the grate. "I'll see you tonight."

As she re-appeared in her lounge room in a swirl of flames, she was greeted by Crookshanks sitting on the couch, still glaring. "Oh, grow up," she snapped at him, before scratching behind his ears.

He _purr_ ed, despite himself. That made him, if possible, even angrier.

* * *

AN: What's this? An update? Sorry for the silence, lovelies – real life happened. I hope you all had a great holiday season, and you enjoyed this chapter!

I've also started a new story – a Hermione/Minerva one called A Question Of Time. Do check it out if you're so inclined! (Can you tell I love strong female characters paired with each other? _Can you?_ ) I just loved writing her in this fic so much that I wanted to give her her own story.

Love,

Lily x

PS: Don't forget to review! I love hearing your thoughts.


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